


Not For The Sake Of Russia

by littlelionlady



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Again, Angst, Bickering, Clueless Illya, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Gaby Gets Mad, Hurt Napoleon, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining illya, Protective Illya, Spies, Swearing, Treason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-11-06 00:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: Fear makes people do terrible things. Gaby knows this. Illya knows this. Napoleon knowns this. Fear will make each of them do something different, and fear will make them do the same thing.And that same thing, that gap they try to bridge, might have the scariest drop of all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby gets drunk and Illya gets uncomfortable, once again, with the fact he is exponentially gay.

Gaby Teller was having a bad day. A  _ long, _ bad day. She walked to the sideboard and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of vodka. Screw Waverly, she needed this. She had lied to her uncle, and regardless of what she was told to do, it still stung. She poured the alcohol liberally into her glass, lifted it to her lips and raised her eyebrows at Kuryakin’s disapproving expression, before knocking it down in one swift gulp. It burnt her mouth and throat, finally settling into a dull fire in her stomach.

“That is not smart,” Illya said.

Gaby shrugged, “But needed.”

She padded over to him and dropped herself into the armchair next to his. He moved one of the black pawns of the chess board he’d been staring at intently for hours. Briefly, she considered casually knocking the table to send his game tumbling, but considering his temper, she was mildly afraid he might destroy the glasses and vodka she was holding.

“Care for one?” she asked, indicating the booze she had poured generously into both glasses.

Illya shook his head, and watched, dumbfounded, as she shot one and then the other.

“Would you like bigger glass?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’m going to finish this whole bottle,” she said, a half smile on her face, “the question is: are you going to help me or not?”

Illya shook his head, barely making eye contact, “No, thank you.”

“Have it your way then,” she mumbled, getting up and walking about of the room, glass and bottle in hand. The alcohol was helping her forget what her issues with the day had been, but it wasn’t helping her forget how incredibly  _ lonely  _ she was again. This always happened when she drank, which is, admittedly, why she tried not to drink often.

A small amount of male company, just someone to make her feel good and fawn over her for an evening, even an hour, would have been enough to convince her tired body and mind that it was perfectly okay to fall apart, sometimes. This mask was always held on just a little too tight – male company meant she could let in some of that vulnerability she was so afraid of losing. One could not afford to be vulnerable on the eastern side of the wall.

And Illya, well, he was nice looking. Tall, broad, smart. Maybe slightly petulant, exceedingly obsessed with Russia, and overly communist, but as long as he didn’t open his mouth, to speak at least, Gaby was sure it would be rather enjoyable. She wondered if the rules of propriety had reached the alien land of Russia, or even if Illya would care. Surely a lonely spy would want for the company of a pretty woman? Surely even  _ he  _ could understand the want for vulnerability sometimes? Her father used to say, “let your soul breathe sometimes Gaby,” and it was not something she had ever forgotten. Whatever form soul breathing took, that is what she aimed for. On the eastern side of the wall, soul breathing meant surviving – here it could mean letting her guard down, just a little.

Maybe she was drunk on the freedom, instead of the vodka.

Illya was too distracted by his one on one chess game to notice as she knocked down two more shots. Gaby smiled wickedly to herself; if Illya wasn’t going to pay attention to her, she would make him. Putting on her sunglasses, and wandering over to the radio in the corner, Gaby turned it on, and up, as loud as she could.

She could see, even from where she stood swaying to the music and swallowing her vodka, that Illya’s shoulders had tensed dramatically but he was doing his best impersonation of a deaf man. She smiled ruefully and went back to dancing as seductively as she could with the sheer amount of alcohol coursing through her system. She was a half a bottle down – not a bad effort.

He stood, shaking his head and stretched. Gaby could see his muscles bunching under his shirt, and her mouth watered a little. Muttering darkly to himself, Illya strode towards Gaby.

“I am going to bed, please, turn this off,” he indicated the radio in the corner, blaring what he assumed was some hedonistic noise through its speakers. Stupid Americans. Stupid English. Stupid music.

“I want to dance,” she announced loudly, holding out her arms and expectantly waiting for Illya to fall into them.

Instead, he grimaced, “How much have you had to drink?” he asked.

“Not enough,” she smiled, intending to pour more alcohol into her glass but having it abruptly snatched from her fingers. “Hey!”

“I will give it back when you turn music off,” Gaby swore she almost saw a smirk under the heavy spy exterior.

She pouted. Later, Gaby would curse herself for this childish action. Pouting was reserved for children and women with far less pride than she. Pouting was not going to get her anywhere with Illya. 

He stared at her little face, bottom lip jutting out slightly, eyebrows knit together, and couldn’t help his face from showing the smirk he was trying to so hard to hide. It surprised him. He shook his head and walked over to the radio to turn it off.    
  
“Does this mean I get my vodka back?”    


“No.” 

“But you said when I turned the music off! It’s not my fault that you were too impatient!” 

Illya pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was not the desired effect Gaby was hoping to have.  

“Illya?” she began, “Do you think I’m pretty?” Gaby kicked herself. What sort of question was that? 

Illya Kuryakin was a trained killer and covert operative. He had seen his father dragged to the Gulag. He had murdered whole groups of people. He could shake apart, into a fit of psychotic rage in a matter of seconds. He could pull doors off of cars with his bare hands even. But he would never, ever, understand women. 

“Excuse me?” was all he could utter in response. 

Gaby sighed and placed a hand on her hip, holding the other one out for the bottle in Illya’s hand expectantly, “You heard me. Do you think I’m pretty?”

The blood from Illya’s already pale skin began to sink. Gaby couldn’t understand the reaction, but she had to admit, it was pretty funny. 

Instead of answering, Illya raised the bottle to his lips and took a long pull, wincing a little at the warmth and bitter taste. Vodka should never be consumed warm. Gaby stared at him, bemused for only a moment before huffing at him and holding out her hand expectantly. The look she shot him clearly said what it meant to;  _ If you are allowed to drink, I am allowed to drink. _

Illya held onto the bottle. 

“We should go to bed,” Illya began. Gaby did not hear his voice shake, too preoccupied with what he had just said.  _ Finally, _ it was heading in the direction she was so hoping for. 

She smiled at him with what she hoped was her best man-eating smile. Instead, Illya turned redder still and turned away, grimacing slightly. 

“Illya,” she purred, “Are you coming?” She held out her hand expectantly again, palm up. He shook her head. 

“No, I will stay here and keep watch,” he nursed the bottle closer to his chest, “You go to sleep.”

Gaby frowned again. He wasn’t making sense and she was not getting what she wanted. This was not going in the direction she was aiming for, and then just when it seemed like thing might finally work out, Illya Kuryakin changed his damn mind again. He was switching his mind so fast that Gaby was starting to get fairly dizzy. The vodka was not helping. She took a deep breath, attempting to steady herself. All it did was make her a little dizzier. She then stepped in front of Illya, pried the bottle from his hands, set it on the floor next to his chair, teetering a little as she did, and, once she was steady again, plonked herself firmly in his lap. 

Illya swallowed hard. 

Gaby looked up at him through her eyelashes. 

He could not move, frozen to his chair in shock. He knew what was coming, knew he should, and could do something to avoid it. But his body still went completely rigid when Gaby kissed him squarely on the mouth. He did not move, instead opting to do his best impersonation of a statue. 

After a moment, Gaby pulled back, not too drunk to recognise when someone was definitely keeping their lips pressed firmly enough together that she couldn’t sneak her tongue along the lower. 

Stuck between mortification and confusion, Gaby folded her arms over her chest and peered blearily at Illya. He smelt a little of sweat and soap. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?” It sounded silly, even to her.    
  
At least he had the audacity to turn red. 

“No.” 

“Why not?”

Illya fumbled for an excuse, “Because it is not part of mission.” 

“Fuck the mission!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms bodily into the air, narrowly avoiding breaking her fingers on Illya’s jaw, “Solo is upstairs right now, and I can almost guarantee he has a woman in his bed! Surely if he can take liberties, you can!”    
  
Illya shifted uncomfortably under Gaby. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty, anyone fool could see that. Her dark features, small frame, and feisty attitude would be enough to make any man weak at the knees. But Illya wasn’t just any man, and not because he was a KGB agent. Where most people could see a pretty woman, and imagine how pretty she was under all the extra layers of clothes and makeup and masks, Illya Kuryakin could not. She was  _ too  _ soft.  _ Too  _ small.  _ Too  _ feminine. 

Not that he had not tried; of course he had tried. He had tried for years. He had never imagined it would become an issue until undercover work, and even then, most of the time he wasn’t expected to  _ sleep  _ with them. Which was good, because he was not sure he could, even for the sake of Russia. 

He stared at her intently, trying to feel some sort of attraction.  _ She is pretty, _ he reminded himself, but instead, he was side-tracked by the mention Gaby had made of Solo. 

“I am not him,” Illya tried to keep his voice from hitching and only just managed it, “He is sloppy spy. I am KGB. I do not have time for this,” he swiftly lifted Gaby from his lap, stood, and put her firmly back on her feet where she proceeded to sway a little. 

Gaby frowned, noticing his voice lacked the bite she was growing so accustomed to. He sounded, well, he sounded almost nervous. 

“You are supposed to be my fake fiance,” she said, hiccuping slightly, “but you barely look at me. Why?” 

Illya rolled his eyes. Secretly his stomach was rolling too. He was glad she was drunk. Maybe she would not remember this conversation, and they would not have to finish having it at a time when she was coherent enough to ask the types of questions Illya was terrified of. He knew he was bad at this, bad at deflecting these questions. They made his stomach shake in time with his fingers. 

Clenching his fists so his nails dug into his palms, Illya took a deep breath, “I do not think about you in that way,” he said finally, emphasising  _ you. _

He had always found the easiest way to get around uncomfortable situations was to tell as much truth as possible. After all, he did not think about Gaby Teller that way. That much was true. But he was still having a hard time not thinking about Napoleon Solo  _ that way _ . 

He tried to push it from his mind again, digging his nails in further and attempting to focus on what was right in front of him. It was not just Gaby, it was women in general. Sure, beautiful creatures. Exquisite. But too soft. Too pliable. And they all smelt flowery. Illya liked the clean smell of aftershave more. 

He shook his head quickly, trying to shake the thoughts away.    


“Well you could at least  _ pretend, _ ” she retorted, clearly hurt, “for the sake of this goddamn mission.”

"Little Chop Shop," he muttered darkly, "if only it was that easy."

  
Gaby would not work out it. No one would. He had kept it from Russia for this long. A tiny drunk German chop shop girl was not going to ruin this for him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is mad but more importantly, everyone is embarrassed.

Sometimes Illya could not tell if Napoleon Solo was actually flirting with him specifically, or if he just liked to flirt. And it was driving him positively _mental._ He knew, obviously, the Solo did like to flirt. That much was evident in his treatment of Miss Teller. They were friendly with each other than Illya could ever hope to be with either of them.  
  
But that was beside the point. He was still driving Illya insane.

He would point out problems with lllya’s clothes, “That tie doesn’t match that suit.”

With Illya’s weapons, “A Kalashnikov will only get you noticed Peril. This is a stealth operation. Be fucking stealthy,” he would huff.

It sent a small thrill through him to hear such unpretty language fall from such a pretty mouth. He had just assumed it was a remnant of his army days. Though Illya didn’t have the best language either.

And then again with Illya’s clothes, “Do you own anything other than terrible ties?”

Sometimes Illya picked a terrible tie just to see Cowboy inwardly, and sometimes outwardly groan. 

“Do you only own turtlenecks? It’s the middle of fucking summer.”

Gaby had agreed with that. And they had managed to convince Illya to put his beloved turtlenecks away, in exchange for linen button downs. He called them capitalist pigs from the dressing room. They had studiously ignored him. He had sardonically considered if Gaby had joined in out of revenge for what he did during their first meeting.

Cowboy was constantly going on about the clothes, leaving Illya to wonder if an agent that terrible was noticing or if he was just noticing _Illya._ Illya couldn’t decide if it was exciting or uncomfortable, and that definitely made him uncomfortable. 

Oh, and how he would smirk at Illya! Over the rim of his glass, from across some dimly lit room, or when he picked a lock that Illya struggled with, or when he lazily took down an enemy like this body wasn’t already coiled for action under his too perfect suit.  

Illya was not going to notice his body. Or his too perfect suit.

Or the curl that fell over his forehead occasionally.

It did things to him, that curl, things he would rather not be thinking about unless the lights were off, and his bedroom door was closed, and the others were definitely asleep. When he was able to be a man for a minute, not a machine; when he had time to stuff his fist in his mouth and just _feel._

He refused to think about the way Cowboy’s voice changed when he was convincing some woman to fall into bed with him. Or how that made Illya’s gut clench a little. Or a lot.

It was a constant reminder really. Serial womanisers did not tend to go for KGB agents who, against their better judgement, were exclusively attracted to men and very desperately hoping that wasn’t obvious. It was easier to be gruff with him, with them both really. They had come to expect the Russian to say very little.

He was used to working alone. It made more sense; teams lead to weaknesses that could be exploited. Illya knew all about exploited weaknesses.

Illya was often glad they would not be able to find him behind the Iron Curtain. He wouldn’t have to _feel_ so much.

 

*

 

He almost lost it again at that insufferable Vinciguerra party. Gaby’s uncle Rudi knew, he just _knew._ That fear alone had been enough to thicken his accent and send his fingers tapping against his thigh. Panic and fury.

“Did they make you build the wall, as well as design it?” Rudi had artlessly enquired, “You’re built like a powerlifter, not an architect.”

Where all the men in Italy going to comment on how he looked? And what was Illya supposed to say to that?

“I like to jog.”

Stupid. Fucking stupid.

“When did this happy accident first occur?” Rudi gestured between the two of them.

“Two years ago,” Gaby had crooned, placing a hand on Illya’s chest and tucking in close. Illya was impressed by how well she was playing her part. However, he suspected it might be a subtle way of holding him still. Grounding him. He tried to take stock in how her weight felt - tried to focus on it.

Things were still awkward.

Rudi looked shocked, and for a moment Illya saw a concerned uncle, “Two years ago?”

“Yes.”

“You never wrote your Uncle Rudi a word about it?”

Gaby had an answer for everything, “I wanted to make sure it was serious,” she said.

“Or were you, perhaps, ashamed?”

Heat had fallen over Illya in waves. Panic and fury. He was sure the others could feel it, the way his tongue tasted of metal and salt.

He could not help himself; he had taken a small advancing step towards Rudi, “Why would she be ashamed?”

The hand Gaby had placed on Illya’s front went from affectionate to hostile in mere milliseconds. Gaby held him back as much as she could, without causing a scene. She had seen the amusement in her uncle’s eyes, knew that this had been his plan. Rudi knew.

Illya tried to remember Gaby’s weight. It made little difference to him. But if he made a wrong move, it could hurt her. As much as she was irritating, she was also on his side.

Rudi feigned nonchalance, turning back to the caviar to busy his hands, “I know that the equity of aristocratic blood is not appreciated by most communists.”

Illya’s hands had shaken, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Gaby had been almost sure he could split her Uncle Rudi in half and make it look effortless. She was half tempted to let him.

“But a good german girl knows never to mix the blood of a racehorse with that of a carthorse.”

Rudi had turned back to Illya at that, whose hands were clenched by his sides in huge fists. Sometimes, when he got like this, so unbelievably wound up, Gaby was reminded of a gorilla preparing to defend its territory. She had only read about them as a girl, but this was almost as good as the real thing. She had looked on in abject horror, waiting for Illya to release the first and only blow. _He could kill Rudi_ , she had decided, _he could kill him with one hit._

Illya’s ears were ringing. He wasn’t even sure he could hear Rudi anymore. He had only heard ringing, and the sound of his blood - thick and strong.

“Uncle Rudi,” Gaby had sounded far away, “What’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“Don’t be so protective,” Illya still had only hear his blood. Was it his blood? It was getting more distinct.

“I’m sure our weightlifter can defend himself,” but he wasn’t allowed to defend himself. Solo had been sure to point that out on numerous occasions. His pulse thundered.

Illya’s stomach had rolled. His fingers had itched. Hands had shook. He had felt like blood was pooling at the back of his head and in the base of his throat. It was the Gulag all over again. He had heard the Gulag. That’s what his pulse sounded like. He could feel it, taste it, smell it. It made him as angry then, as it had made him at 11. Angry, and panicked, and utterly helpless. 

Illya refused to be helpless.

“Excuse me,” he had ground out, stepping quickly away. Rudi _knew._

Illya tried to concentrate on any of the relaxation techniques he had learnt over the years, not that they were effective. The KGB utilised him as a weapon for the most part, keeping the anger under wraps was encouraged as long as he could bring it to the forefront when it was deemed ‘necessary.’ He would do what was needed for the sake of his country. That was his job. And he wasn’t good at much else.

Breathing was not working. He stretched his hands; open, then closed, open, then closed. Focusing on the movement helped him consider what to do next. He could still hear his pulse thundering loudly in his ears, but it was fading. Now he was mostly filled with embarrassment.

Unprofessional. Careless. Laughable. Arrogant. Reckless. Illya continuously chided himself. Maybe Rudi had suspicions but now he could almost be sure that Illya was not who he said he was, all because Illya had forgone acting for reacting, like he was a child again.

His hands still shaking, he decided washing his face might be the next best thing. At least it would give him something to do.

And then there, in the bathroom, those three Italian boys had stood in his way, and he had been so itching to break _something_. They were ripe for the taking. He snapped a few bones. Maybe crushed some others. There was maybe a little bit of blood. Nothing major. A broken nose.

He had needed to exercise some restraint after all. Ripping their arms off seemed counter-intuitive.

Besides, once it was out of his system, Illya still had a job to do.

 

*

 

Back in their hotel room, Illya and Gaby avoided each other immediately; Gaby embarrassed about the night before, and furious at Illya’s performance at the Vinciguerra Party. Illya, just furious and embarrassed in general.

And then the Cowboy walked in, while Illya was developing film in the bathroom, “Where’s Peril?” he heard Solo’s low voice and winced a little. 

Solo was mad.

“He’s been in there half an hour,” he heard Gaby reply. 

Soft footsteps over the floorboards and a light knock on the bathroom door; Illya was angry all over again.  

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in bathrooms recently,” he said and Illya wanted to groan at the double entendre, “Apparently, you put someone called Count Lippi in hospital.” 

Ah. Illya waited to feel embarrassment wash through him yet again, but it never came, after all, he had not really started it.

“He had soft bones,” he called, “And don’t question my methods.”

“What’s he done?” he heard Gaby ask, like a mother questioning a neighbour about her naughty child. It set Illya’s teeth on edge. Gaby was hard to work with. His fists clenched, and with great effort he set about unclenching them for the sake of his photos and his camera. 

“Super Agent here decided to have some fun with three young Italian boys in the men’s room.”

Solo was not helping, “They had it coming.”

He heard Gaby huff, “You need to control your temper,” she said.

And before he could stop himself, he said, “And you need to control your urges.”

His words were met with silence, followed by Solo saying, “How did you find Alexander Vinciguerra?”

Illya winced, and was suddenly grateful Solo had the propensity to change the subject.

“I think he’s an athletic, good-looking gazillionaire who’s offered me a job and made advances towards me,” she said.

“He’s still a Nazi,” Illya blurted out. Gaby was not wrong, Alexander Vinciguerra _was_ good looking. That didn’t change the fact he was still a Nazi.

“I quite like him,” she continued as though Illya had said nothing.

Napoleon Solo sighed, reminding himself he was dealing with amateurs. Childish amateurs.

“Yes, but is he up to no good?”

“If you mean by, “no good,” is he trying to steal me away from my fiance? The answer is yes.”

Illya was struck suddenly with the overwhelming feeling that Gaby was trying to make him jealous. She had made a point last night, even in her drunken haze, to acknowledge that Illya was really bad at playing devoted fiance. 

This could be used to his advantage - throw them both off so no one questioned his loyalty or, more importantly, preferences, “That is not happening,” he yelled from the bathroom, pulling more photos out of their solution and hanging them gently on the line.

Gaby’s response told him he had struck a chord, “I don’t know what you’re upset about! You’re not even my fiance!” she yelled.

Illya opened the bathroom door, determined to make this as convincing as possible, _for the sake of the mission_ , he told himself, “As far as he is concerned, I am. And for the purpose of the mission, I am,” he could feel Solo looking at him too, “So, like I said, it’s not happening.”

He closed the door and leaned against it briefly. 

Solo had to see the photos anyway.

 

*

 

“These photos have been treated to show gamma radiation,” he said, all business, thrusting the photos at Solo and trying not to breathe in the scent of his aftershave.  
  
Solo made a small noise in the back of his throat, like he was impressed with Illya’s work. Illya shouldn’t have been surprised, shouldn’t have felt pleased with himself. But he did.  
  
He put it down to proving he was the better spy.

“Tell you what,” the American mused, “Let me sleep on it.”  
  
He took the photos, turned, and walked out of the room, leaving Illya standing in the doorway of the bathroom, dumbfounded, while Gaby laughed at him behind her magazine.

If Solo wasn't going to take him seriously, then he would go himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I forgot where this is going. But it's going.
> 
> EDIT 19/03: Sorry about the edits everyone. Just decided it could use a little more flow and characterisation. I'm having some trouble keeping Illya KGB tough and also completely fucked up over his sexuality and fascination with Solo. The characterisation will help me with the story later on. 
> 
> I also wanted to combine chapters 2 & 3 - they both feel so short to me. But I was publishing as I wrote, rather than finishing it and publishing a whole 3000-4000 words. 
> 
> Writing fanfic is so new. It's been too long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Illya considers where his loyalties lie, and Napoleon considers Peril to be an idiot. Also, they fight over a Kalashnikov. And some interesting things come into light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update - 14/04  
> Just a few updates to the second and third chapter. There's a significant lack of relationship building which will make any relationships moving forward look forced. 
> 
> This is my first fic, I'm honestly just fixing as I go.

Outside the compound, Napoleon at least had the audacity to look sheepish. Illya wanted to punch him in the face.    
  
“I work better alone,” he’d said, by way of explanation.    
  
“As do I,” Illya had replied, because this was not an excuse. 

He’d said the Russian could tag along, but Illya knew he was needed. The man might have been a thief, an expert at extraction, but Illya was an agent, and a fucking good one.

First the lights went out, “I take it that’s your doing?” Solo said. 

Illya shrugged, annoyed that Solo hadn’t thought to handle the generators. Annoyed that Solo had the audacity to attempt this mission alone, without Illya, when the only reason it even existed as a lead was because of Illya. Annoyed that he would willingly risk this extremely valuable opportunity for the sake of his overly large ego. Annoyed that it didn’t seem to phase him.    
  
He ripped the fence open, “CO2 laser,” to Solo’s blank stare. 

“I’ll take top.”

“I’ll take bottom.”

Kuryakin didn’t hear the implications behind these words. Solo did, and he smirked to himself while he picked the lock.

Then there were guards, “Do you need a hand?” his question was more a demand. Illya waved him off. He rolled his eyes. 

“Let me do it,” he pushed the Russian’s hands aside and opened the door, closing it quietly behind him and locking it just in time for the guards to try the handle. 

He grinned a shit eating grin at Illya, who wanted to hit him again. 

It was a feeling that never left. 

  
  


*

 

The generators had come back on, and they were pressed too close together in an alcove. Too close together and Illya was noticing the warmth of Solo, the smell of him; his breath against the back of Illya’s neck.    
  
And then there was the guard, with the watch, and Illya needed that watch. It’s absence felt like a bullet to the head. And there it was, on some disgusting Nazi Italian.    
  
He knocked the man out.    
  
“Why?” Solo had asked.    
  
“I thought he had my father’s watch,” was all he could offer by way of explanation, like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. Solo tried to fault him, and couldn’t. 

  
  


*

  
  


Solo opened the safe. He was cocky and a complete egomaniac and Illya could see, in those brief moments, the thrill he got from being the thief that took four countries and a special task force, to catch. His heart stuttered, just a little. 

The alarm went off.    
  
He pulled his hands away, like he’d been electrocuted, a look of blank shock on his face. He turned to Illya, full lips opened just slightly.    
  
Illya’s heart rate picked up, and he told himself it was the adrenaline. He pushed as much sarcasm isn’t his voice as he could muster. 

“Loving your work Cowboy.”

That seemed to spurn him on. Illya pulled his gun while Napoleon dashed into the safe, emerging with a piece of metal pipe and a bitter taste in his mouth. No bomb, no blueprints, no plans, nothing.    
  
“Let’s go!” Illya barked.

They raced each other through the halls, not sure if the other had their back. Napoleon felt like a fucking idiot, running around with his hands over his head. Intense gunfire being something he generally tried to avoid.

The fell into easy rhythm though; Napoleon went high, Illya went low. Napoleon shot up, Illya shot down. Back to back. 

It was too easy.    
  
“Does this mean anything to you?”   
  
Probably not the best time to ask a question, mid gun fight. But Napoleon always lived by the philosophy of “now or never.” 

“Is part of centrifuge,” he yelled, “For refining uranium.” 

  
And then, because if it wasn’t already perfectly obvious that they were going to either have their covers blown, or die, “I am not staying here!” 

“Where are you going to go?” To Napoleon, their capture or demise seemed imminent. 

  
“Swimming,” and then Illya flung himself out the window.     
  


 

*

 

Things had begun to move quickly after that. Solo had rescued Illya, and he had tried not to think about the motivations behind it too much. Then Gaby threw them both under the bus, so to speak, and Illya had saved Solo. Had not even considered leaving him there as an option. A life for a life, he had told himself, as he followed the GPS tracker he’d planted in the Americans shoes. When he had arrived, the smell of burning had caused the Gulag to ring in his ears again.    
  
Rudi had an easy death compared to what Illya was preparing to do to him. 

Solo had looked at him curiously, grey and pale and sweaty, and Illya had made an instant decision to follow him. To not look too closely at the feeling, to not think too hard about what had made him defy direct orders and  _ allegiances  _ to rescue him. He shoved all these away, into the back of his mind. To be examined at a later day; maybe. 

Illya tended not to examine things too closely.

He’d wiped the blood off his partner’s face, not thinking too hard about the damage that had been caused to Solo. They had a mission, and he had hoped that Solo was at least a good enough spy to shake it off until it could all be examined properly. But the man was shaking, hard. Shaking harder than Illya ever had. 

He looked away while Napoleon struggled uneasily to his feet, taking the embarrassment from the man and locking it away somewhere.    
  
Solo was infallible after all. Solo, who set alarms off by accident. Solo, who held arms over his head during gun fire. Solo who lied. Solo who came back for him. Solo, who  _ bled. _ _   
_ __   
Illya put it all away. 

Then more orders had come; get the disk, kill the American. Oleg had not even used Napoleon’s name, just called him  _ The American _ . Illya could not tell if he felt hot or cold at the thought. Already betrayed by Gaby,  _ twice,  _ it was beginning to become a very long day.    
  
“For a special agent, you’re really not having a special day, are you Kuryakin?” Waverly had said.    
  
Illya wanted to punch his stupid British face.    
  
Solo had looked at him with what Illya was sure he had mistaken as sympathy. But just as soon as he had seen it, it was gone again.    
  
On the ground, Waverly briefed them on the extraction, provided them with fresh clothes, food, and weapons. Illya was surprised to find the weapons a mix of German, South American and English made. Not nearly as good as a Russian gun, but passable. He settled on a series of small throwing knives, a Colt M1911 pistol (which annoyed him due to the sheer lack of shots he could take with it), and, “Is that a Kalashnikov?” he blurted, watching Solo handle the heavy armament.    
  
“Yes Peril, I do believe it is.”    
  
Illya looked at him in mild shock, noting the last time that  _ he  _ had held the gun, Cowboy thought it prudent to point out it was not a stealth weapon. Stupid American.  

He cleared his throat.

Napoleon didn’t even raise his eyes, “Need a lozenge Peril?” 

“You told me Kalashnikov is not good gun for stealth operation,” he shot back petulantly.    
  
“So I did.”    
  
“So what are you going to do with that gun on  _ this stealth operation _ ?” he inquired angrily. 

Napoleon’s lips were turned up at the corner. He raised an eyebrow. Illya recognised that he was enjoying this, enjoying riling the Russian up. He was just so easy to punish. Napoleon loved pushing buttons, even though four hours ago, he’d been pulled out of some electrocution contraption, shaking like a leaf with a bloody nose.  

“Why, I’m going to use it of course.”    
  
He turned red, and his fingers started drumming on his thighs. This was where it always became interesting - how many pushes before Illya flipped another table?   
  
“You are hypocrite,” he said.    
  
“I never claimed to be anything but Peril,” he said, “And I’ve grown rather fond of our Gaby. She’s been quite good at her job, wouldn’t you say?”    
  
The question was meant to be rhetorical, but Illya could not help but grudgingly agree. 

“So I would rather go in, all guns blazing so to speak.”

And finally, Illya got it, “This is not stealth operation for you, is it?” he asked quietly. He wondered if Solo would do something like that for him. 

Napoleon looked at him hard, and long. It made Illya feel vulnerable, like Solo was looking for something inside him. Illya threw up all the shields he could by quickly diverting his gaze. He was afraid of Napoleon might see there.    
  
“I am loyal where it suits me,” was all he said, turning back towards the gun and putting it aside. Illya immediately picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. Better to have a weapon he was familiar with.    
  
“What does being loyal to Gaby give you?”    
  
Napoleon snorted, “An ally.”   
  
“She is German. The American and Germans are not allies.”   
  
“She works for British Intelligence Peril,” his voice held a warning now, even though he was refusing to look at Illya, instead pacing the table looking for a weapon, “And besides, I meant a personal ally.”    
  
It was Illya’s turn to snort, “CIA not your friends then Cowboy?”    
  
Napoleon Solo was never easy to shake. His buttons were not clear, and there were few things that made him angry, which was a stark contrast to his compatriots. Which was why Illya knew he’d said something wrong when Solo turned slowly to glare at him, “Gaby is my friend,” he barked, “We are a team. I will not leave my team behind,” Illya winced. He knew this. He knew it the moment Napoleon had pulled him from the water. He’d never seen Solo like this before, eyes flashing with anger.    
  
“But if you are still working out where your allegiances lie Peril, then I suggest you leave.”    
  
Solo picked up a gun off the table, flipped it over in his hands, and stalked off, weapon hanging loosely at his side. Illya opened his mouth but no words came out. He never knew what to say anyway. Maybe he could say how he had already chosen. But that would mean examining everything he had tucked away, and there was not time for that now. 

Maybe he had not been as obvious as he had originally thought. Maybe his blundering just looked careless. In his carelessness, he had made them believe he didn't care.

Well, he didn't. They were not his responsibility really. He was following orders, right?

“Wait, Solo!” he called, half hoping the darker man would just ignored him and keep walking.

His steps stuttered somewhat before fully coming to a halt, almost as though he considered it. He swung around, and Illya briefly saw a painful vulnerability that was easily replaced by fury.

“What?” he bit out.

“I have orders,” Illya muttered.

Solo raised an angry eyebrow, interest peaked.

“So do I; rescue Miss Teller,” he was playing his cards close to his chest.

“Other orders,” Illya huffed.

Solo was not sure if this was a good idea. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, even though it was very clear what the orders were. He'd received them too. His curiosity could be muted for the sake of the mission, and more so for his safety. If anything, he knew when to pick his battles. And this wasn't the time. Or the place. Regardless of how he felt about his mishmash of a team.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Not here Peril.”

“But this is important,” Illya held his hands up and walked slowly towards him, like he was stalking a deer.

“Not here,” Napoleon hissed more urgently.

“I would not follow through,” he mumbled, quietly enough for only Napoleon's ears, “You are my team,” which was about as much as he could say without it becoming dangerously evident that he would willingly commit treason for a capitalist American and infuriating German.

Napoleon wanted to say something biting to the Russian, but all that came out was, “Prove it.”

  
  


*

  
  


He was fond of Gaby. He liked how she pouted when she talked about Illya, and he liked how that pout felt when he kissed her. She’d come to him, wound up and emotional and it just made sense to uncoil her slowly. It gave him joy, to see the way she relaxed around him. Sighing into the embrace, melting into his touch. To watch her coil and uncoil, over and over again, until she couldn't any more. Until her joints were disjointed and she sighed into sleep. 

He was taken aback by her willingness and experience. She was so young. He constantly had to remind himself of that; she was still so young. But she didn't hold him with tentativeness - she was possessive. She knew what she wanted, and that was to sink into his skin. He held her tighter, bit her a little. Let her mask slide off. He liked when he saw that. But he knew he couldn't love her. And that was fine, because she wasn't interested in him. Just his body. And that was okay too.

It was an unspoken agreement in which he had volunteered to help while she pined after a man who was so clearly uncomfortable with women. Napoleon did not have the heart to tell her about Peril’s preferences. He hadn’t told them for a reason, and in this day and age, Napoleon could respect that. He knew how the CIA felt about it. After all, Napoleon’s own preferences would have caused him great distress if it wasn’t for the fact they found them useful.

That hadn’t stopped the remarks though.  _ Pansy, cocksucker, fag… _

Napoleon wasn’t stupid enough to think that he didn’t have it easy. If Illya was keeping quiet about it, it was because he was in danger. More danger than Napoleon.

And besides, he liked women. Equally as much as men. It didn’t phase him really - different body types, different sensations. But the company was always nice. And he was nothing, if not a selfless lover. All Gaby needed was to let a little steam off, and if he could help with that, to keep her in line, and for his own enjoyment even, then there was no harm, really.

If he could keep her entertained, she wouldn’t ask so many questions about Peril. 

But he wasn’t good at feelings, and this is where it was going. He was feeling things, for both of them. He was caring. And caring was how people got themselves killed. Peril knew it. He knew it. And maybe even on some level, Gaby knew it.

Which was what made their partnership so infuriating. They all knew, on some level, how far they would willingly go for the other. Peril had proven it in his rescue attempt of Solo and he was proving it again now, in what looked like a one man assault of the whole of Vinciguerra Island. Napoleon Solo was good at his job. He knew he was good at his job. He would never admit it to the man's face of course, but Illya was better. Quieter. Brutal. Less finesse, more efficient. Solo could follow him, would follow him. They were virtually unstoppable.

And that scared Solo too.

 

*

  
Napoleon didn’t mean to see the watch. He definitely didn’t mean to stop and waste precious time in prying the clasp open and yanking it off the Italian scum.    
  
He did mean to kick the man hard enough to break his nose for good measure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost it for a bit, but we're getting somewhere. I've definitely considered an ending at this point, but I'm wondering how many chapters it might be. I ballparked 5 - could be more, could be less. Probably more.
> 
> Update: Needed some introspective Napoleon. Wanted to see why he gave such a damn about rescuing Gaby.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Action in the field leads to some irrational decisions are maybe too much thinking. Gaby is pretty sure she's right, and Illya is certain he doesn't care.

First Peril went over the side of the cliff. Completely at a loss of what to do, and trying desperately not to panic, Napoleon shoved the car holding Gaby and Alexander Vinciguerra off the side of the cliff as well, following close behind and watching the car in front roll over and over again. He briefly wondered if he'd killed Gaby, and snuffed that thought before it could venture any further.    
  
He could see where the bike lay on top of Peril, unmoving, and considered his options. Their team was all for disobeying direct orders for the sake of protecting each other, still not something anyone was willing to admit out a loud. He also knew his job was to keep Gaby safe. Gaby, who he'd sent spiralling over the side of a cliff for the sake of this goddamn mission. Gaby, who he was quite attached to. Gaby, who didn't flinch when she found out the CIA used his  _ preferences  _ to their advantage.

Pulling her from the wreck had been easy and in the back of his mind, Napoleon registered that it was too easy. He was dragging her motionless corpse out of the car when Vinciguerra snuck up on him. He was made briefly aware of Gaby’s eyes fluttering open, and the way her mouth twisted into ragged fear. 

It was embarrassing really; he’d pulled his handgun in time for Alexander to smack him hard enough with a pipe that he was in his knees, and wondering how he got there. That was closely followed by a swift, sharp kick to the chest. His ribs were cracked. He was sure. It was very hard to breathe. Painful and sharp. 

It wasn’t the first time this had happened to him. Him forced himself to keep breathing. His lungs tightening at the motion. He could see Illya stirring. Relief briefly clouded his mind. This distraction cost him. Vinciguerra kicked him in the chest again. His ribs broke this time. He felt his breath leave him in a sharp  _ oof. _

Gaby was struggling to stand. She was screaming his name. His vision was turning black and white. He shouldn't have slept with her. She was attached. This would hurt her, if he didn't make it through. He didn't want to hurt her. He liked her.

He got back onto his knees, struggling to get his feet under this body, to push up, to stand. Alexander kicked him in the jaw. Napoleon vaguely registered a look of abject cruelty on his face before he flew flat onto his back, cracking his head into the ground. He felt the pole hit him in the face, before he heard the sickening metallic thwack. He couldn’t hear anymore. His hearing had whited out. He could taste blood, feeling it drip down the back of his throat, dribbling across his face, sticky and viscous. 

Damn. Vinciguerra had broken his nose. It was a nice nose.

Gaby managed to force herself up and onto his back. Rookie move. Dangerous move. He threw her in seconds. Napoleon wondered where Illya was. He could use some protecting right now. And Peril always seemed to show up just in time. 

In the ever dimming distance, Napoleon was vaguely aware of a roar and movement that did not belong to either he or Gaby. The sound of metal straining and stretching, a thud, and the unforgettably wet sound of Alexander Vinciguerra being stabbed to death in one quick motion followed quickly after. He let his head fall back against the sodden earth with a small grunt.

Napoleon vaguely considered how he would repay the Russian for saving his life, twice. Maybe a nice dinner. Or that good Russian vodka he’d had in Minsk. He could kiss him, that would work too.

He really would have to hand it to Peril. And he would, when he could feel his hands properly again. And his face.

  
  


*

 

“How’s your leg?”   
  
There was a heavy sigh, “Burned.”    
  
“How badly?” 

Another sigh, “Bad enough.”

Silence. A beat. Enough for a single heartbeat. And then,

“I didn’t know you could lift a motorcycle.”

“I pulled back off car. Why does this surprise you?”

“Maybe because I didn’t expect you to do it for  _ us.” _

There was silence that seemed to drag forever. Napoleon’s heart sped up, which was exceptionally painful considering his chest felt like a troupe of flamenco dancers had used him as a dance floor, and it took him a moment to realise that he recognised those voices. He was waiting, waiting for Peril to deny it. But the silence answered the unspoken question. The only thing he heard was his own painful breathing.

“What do you think he’ll say about his nose?” Gaby asked.

“Probably something vain.”

Napoleon wanted to protest but his face hurt. His lips were swollen.

“You’ll let me know when he wakes, won’t you?”

“Of course. Go back to apartment. I will keep watch. Take a nap, and a shower.”

Illya’s voice was soft and tired sounding. Napoleon wasn’t sure he had ever heard Peril sound like that. He didn’t like it, how defeated the man sounded. 

“What about you?” Gaby sounded concerned. Napoleon wondered what had changed, to make them get alone.     
  
“What about me?”    
  
“Illya,” Gaby hesitated, “Illya you have been by his side for three days. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”    
  
Three days was a long time for a Russian operative to sit passively by the bedside of a Capitalist American thief, who also just happened to work for the CIA.    
  
“I don’t want him to wake up alone.” 

Napoleon wasn’t sure what to make of that. He pushed it away, like he did with most of the other puzzle pieces that made up Peril. To be taken out and examined another day.  

The longer Napoleon was awake, the more he realised his chest ached. The grogginess was still there, but not enough to let him go back to sleep. He sucked in a breath, it burned. Ached. Stung. He tried to open his eyes. That cost energy he didn’t have. He tried to focus on breathing, but the more he focused, the more it hurt.    
  
He clenched his hands and eyes shut, sucking in breaths but not quite capable of letting them out.      
  
“Napoleon,” the same voice said again. Gaby, he thought, sounded far too worried to be Gaby. It couldn’t be good.

“Illya, get a nurse.”    
  
He tried to open his eyes again. It was exhausting, and cost him his remaining energy. His head was swimming a little. He coughed. That caused little stars to pop up behind his eyelids. It  _ hurt. _ He wanted to tell them he was okay. He wanted them to stop worrying. He wanted Illya to stop worrying. 

Someone took his hand. It was a big hand, it encased his.  _ Illya.  _ Napoleon tried to focus on the warmth of it. Tried to squeeze the thick fingers back. That hurt too. 

His lungs still felt like they were on fire. Everything was fire.

He heard murmured whispers and shuffling around the room, before realising he was slipping back into another drug induced sleep. He felt the pull of the morphine and gave up fighting, letting the drug ease his breathing.

He hoped he would sleep until it didn’t hurt to breathe.  

  
  


*

 

“Illya, come here.”

He had. He had crawled into that bed. He had hidden in dark corners. Shared coveted looks. Small kisses. Hushed moans. He had been held. He had cried in those arms. Whispered secrets and promises over and over like a prayer. 

It was the early days of his career. The first few years. It was illegal. He knew it. And it was still not enough to stop him. 

Illya Kuryakin was a good agent. Their youngest and their best. He could follow orders perfectly. He had known that since he was 17 years old. He had been doing it since he was 19. He had never wavered; pledged his allegiance to Russia, vowed to give his life for her own. Even with a partner, he had devoted his life to mother Russia, to her protection, honour, defence, and reputation. 

That is what he was told. That is what he had recited, like a mantra, during every mission. That’s what he used to quell the ache in his head, the cognitive dissonance at who he loved, and what he was created to do. Love Mikhail; be a good spy. And in his world, Illya could not do both. 

Mikhail was assigned to be Illya’s partner. Mikhail, who Illya loved. Mikhail, who loved him.

Mikhail who had been shot in the head, at point blank range, right in front of Illya.

And his heart had fallen out of his chest. He was holding his guts in with his bare hands. He had been bleeding ever since. Leaving a trail behind him everywhere he went. He was sure of it. He worked alone after that, too fragile to let another agent watch his back, knowing he didn’t deserve it. Too busy looking over his shoulder, hiding the hole in his chest, hoping Oleg had not seen it, could not see it.

So he drank when he was alone, which was constant. His mother, without asking any questions, had told her son “time will heal.” 

He did not believe her, but like any good son, he had stayed quiet and done his best. Illya was a good son. 

Then Napoleon Solo had saved his life; had pulled Illya from the freezing water, dragged him across the banks, pushed air back into his lungs. He hadn’t needed to do that. Any good agent knew not to do go after a partner. Always the mission, the mark. Illya knew he was collateral. Solo had come back for him anyway.   

And Illya had seen Solo in Rudi’s chair, every muscle in his body vibrating with electricity that did not belong in his circuitry, arms and legs and head strapped to a table, like he was an animal. His nose had bled; Solo had bled, and still he had not given them up. He had not screamed, not given Rudi the satisfaction.

His heart had squeezed for the man. He had wanted to kill Rudi painfully and slowly. He had wanted to gather Solo into his arms; whisk him away, lick his wounds. This red, the regular red that ran before his eyes, was tinged with a protectiveness Illya saved for his mother. And protectiveness he had not thought he would feel for another man since Mikhail. 

  
  


*

 

Illya was at a loss of what to do. Napoleon had been in and out of consciousness for days. Everytime he began to wake, his sleep would be medically induced again. He had lost too much blood, and there was really no way to fix a few shattered ribs other than time. Not cracked, not broken, shattered. Punctured a lung. Or two. So a lot of time. The doctors were not sure. It didn’t matter how much yelling he did, they were adamant they couldn’t tell him what was wrong. Not until the bruising and swelling went down.    
  
“There’s no harsh rattle to his breathing anymore,” the doctor had said on the fifth day, “So take that as a good sign.”    
  
Illya held onto it. But every time he looked at the American, his pulse thundered in his ears again, chanting _Mikhail, Mikhail, Mikhail._

He didn’t leave Napoleon’s side. The Russians had contacted him to ask about the whereabouts of the disk, which he, truthfully, had not thought about. He was wound up tight and hunched over Napoleon’s hand all day, every day. Oleg was furious. He had raved at Illya about insubordination, and threatened him with the same fate as his father. Ten minutes into the call, Oleg stopped ranting and told him to stand by for further instruction. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not all that long ago, the Iron Curtain would have brought him peace. 

Sometimes Gaby would come visit. She would bring him a fresh shirt. He wasn’t sure where they were coming from, but he was too preoccupied to consider asking.  She would put her hand over his, and pry his fingers loose. Illya would take that as his cue. Gaby had all but demanded that he take a half hour to change, wash his face, and eat. The first day, he had refused. Two armed men came and he was forced to remove himself. 

He considered what Gaby must be thinking, and sometimes that ice gripped his heart with long, brittle fingers. It was enough, sometimes, to pull him from a downward spiral about Napoleon. Of course, this would just result in another spiral. 

Illya always felt like he was spiralling now.    
  
Waverley came and offered him a job not long after his conversation with Oleg. He had just stared blankly at the man until he bowed his head, mumbling something about giving Illya a few days to make up his mind, and saw himself out. 

If Waverley was willing to offer him a job, then maybe Gaby had not said anything.

Of course, that thought hadn’t even crossed Gaby’s mind. She wanted to be sure that she was  _ right.  _ Just for the sake of being right. For the sake of proving Napoleon wrong. And maybe, just maybe, so she could let go of the little bubble in her chest that told her the Russian was probably an exceptional.. What had Napoleon called it? Shag. Illya was hard to like as a person. He was boring and broody and all too devoted to Mother Russia. But he was strong, and capable, and at times, even gentle. 

That gentleness had never expanded towards anything other than professional courtesy. And cleaning up after her the night of the Vodka incident.

All this time, Napoleon had told her she was making things up, that she was wrong, that it wasn’t even any of her business if he was. But she was sure Napoleon knew something she didn’t. 

Napoleon had even gone as far as to suggest Illya wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, should one fall into his lap. Gaby was starting to suspect he wasn’t far off, but wasn’t quite ready to admit that yet.    
  
This copped him a hard punch to the shoulder and a quirked eyebrow. He had scowled in her direction and gone back to making dinner. 

However, over the course of the weeks they had spent together, Gaby had noticed how Napoleon loved to push Illya’s buttons. How Illya was almost permanently on edge as soon as the American would enter the room. She had seen Napoleon’s lazy smiles, the glimmer in his eyes. The abject  _ fondness  _ she knew, she had seen it when he looked at her. But this was something else. 

Quicker, lighter. Something that Illya hadn’t noticed. Which, honestly, wasn’t very surprising. He was so wound up in himself, in not breaking something, that a spider could crawl across his face and he probably would not have noticed. But Gaby had seen it, had seen Illya’s desperate eyes following him, tracing Napoleon’s moves. And seen Napoleon’s lazy gaze fixing the Russian was a smirk that could have parted the Red Sea. 

It was rather sickening. And it proved she was right. Napoleon was going to cop an ear full. 

She really was too close to these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every day this story changes. I can't yet tell if it's changing for the better, or for the worse. But at the point, it's probably going to end up longer than I expected. I'm enjoying writing it, and it's the first fic I've enjoyed writing for a really long time. 
> 
> I desperately wish to rename it but naming things isn't my forte. 
> 
> Enjoy. I'll have another chapter for you soon.
> 
> UPDATE 25/08/19:  
> Just adding slightly more to the mind of Gaby. Lost a little characterisation in there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon wanted to save their lives, but you can't do that when you're unconscious and really bad at thinking things through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello - please know I have taken many a creative liberty and I have enjoyed every minute of it. 
> 
> I'm presenting you with two updates this week as I have a paper due next week and probably won't get a chance to work on it, so savour this one. 
> 
> All my love x

Ten days after Napoleon saved their lives by crashing some cars, and Illya saved their lives by stabbing Alexander Vinciguerra, and Gaby had saved literally everyone's lives by blowing up the Vinciguerra boat, Solo was allowed to wake up.   
  
It was horrible.   
  
Everything tasted like he had licked a paper mill; like dry, mouldy paper and rust. And it hurt. The sun hurt his eyes and the air hurt his lungs and the rest of his body just ached. He groaned.   
  
There was pressure on his hand, which tightened at the sound. He groaned again, and the fingers tightened further still. His body hurt enough without the extra help.   
  
“Whoever it holding my hand ought to let go,” his voice came out raspy and barely above a whisper.   
  
“How are you feeling Cowboy?” Illya choked out, voice low. He loosened his grip, but kept holding on. Napoleon’s stomach swooped.   
  
“Never better Peril.”

Illya gave a low bark of a laugh.

“Where’s Gaby?” 

  
Illya shrugged, “I am not sure. She comes and goes.”

“The bomb?”

“Bottom of the Indian Ocean.”

Napoleon arched an eyebrow, “Impressive.” Napoleon wanted to feel safe, but there was something still pushing in the back of his head. Something he had forgotten, something vital.

Illya snorted, “Not nearly as impressive as your suicide attempt Cowboy.”

“Suicide attempt?!” Napoleon spluttered, “You think I would let Alexander Vinciguerra break my nose in a suicide attempt?!”

Illya snorted again, followed by a bark of laughter. It was good to hear him laugh.

“Gaby owes me ten pounds.”

“For what?”

At least Illya had the audacity to look sheepish. It made Napoleon feel warm.  
  
"This reminds me, should I die Peril, I request an open casket, white lilies, and thousands of mourners."  
  
“I will go get the nurse,” Illya mumbled, hiding the blush rising in his cheeks.

Napoleon had never seen him blush. He found himself wanting to do it again.

“She will want to know you're awake now. And check on you.”

He saw himself out of the room, giving Napoleon a chance to take stock of himself.

His nose had definitely been broken, he remembered that part. And the arch in his cheeks and forehead told him all he needed on the subject. It still hurt to breathe, and he was short of breath while trying to sit up. He slumped back down. Something wrong with his ribs and lungs then. The stabbing on his side told him it was probably more serious than he wanted to know. But he was alive, so the CIA wouldn't care.

That was good, it meant they wouldn't ask too many questions. Sanders hated paperwork; if Napoleon was lucky then he had already taken Waverley's report on it. Of course, given his circumstances recently, Napoleon was safe to assume he was never going to be lucky again.

He would look into it as soon as he could move of his own accord.

It was at this point, the nurse came in and began her fussing, Illya following behind and taking up residence back in his chair.

“Gaby will be here within the hour,” Illya told him distractedly, frowning at the nurse while Napoleon winced.

She helped him into a sitting position, for better access to the bandages wrapped around his middle. This action alone knocked all the wind out of him. Napoleon focused on breathing. His lungs felt tight, and the movement hurt his ribs.

“The swelling is going down,” the nurse mumbled to herself, “But there's probably a lot of internalised bruising. I'll have to get the doctor. Hopefully the bleeding stopped,” she lowered Napoleon back against his pillows, staying with him long enough for his gasps and hisses to regulate.

“Breathing will get easier too dear,” she patted his hand, “You're just going to have to practise. Build that strength back up. You have to have patience with your body.”

When the nurse left, Napoleon turned to Illya.

“Peril,” he sounded shaken, “You have to get me out of here.”

“What happened to being patient with your body?” Illya was shocked at the desperation in his voice.

“I am not a patient person.”

He was visibly agitated, almost vibrating with nerves.

“Napoleon,” Illya recognised this, “What have you done?”

Napoleon shushed him, “Not here. Just get me out and I can explain everything. Illya please,” he looked terrified, “I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?”

His words were pouring out of him in a rush. His eyes were wide and bright, and Illya wasn’t fully convinced that he wasn’t running a fever. None of his usual bravado stood; Illya knew what Napoleon looked like when he was scared, outnumbered. The Russian knew that his mask would come up higher, pulled closer to his body; knew that his eyes would dart to every entry and exit, weighing his options. His stance would change to loosely resemble Illya’s fighting stance, and a crease would appear between his eyebrows, even when the rest of his face and body was a picture of ease. 

This was worse. Illya just wanted to pick him up and run, take him away, protect him. He didn’t know what to do in this situation; Napoleon was obviously still too unwell to leave. For once, he was at a loss. And that made his hands shake.   
  
“Illya,” Napoleon sounded like he was going to beg, and it was strange enough that he was being called by his first name, and not the God awful nickname he had been gifted, “Do you trust me?” Napoleon’s eyes were imploring.   
  
Illya nodded.

Napoleon sighed to himself and leaned back with a wince, “Is Gaby coming by car?” 

Illya shrugged, “I do not know. I expect she will be coming from headquarters.” 

At this Napoleon sat bolt upright, “Headquarters?!” He practically squawked, “Where the hell are we?!”   
  
Illya cracked a smirk, “I am surprised you did not notice Cowboy. We’re in London. Even the nurse sounds British.”

Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut again, and Illya was scared he was going to start panicking. He did not know what to do when people panicked; his mother would panic when he was a child, usually about his father, or making ends meet, but he was useless then too. He never knew what to say.

The American opened his eyes and fixed Illya with a piercing stare, “I need you to get a first aid kit, steal some painkillers, and break me out. Tell Gaby to bring the car. We need to get out of here.” 

Illya really did stare at him in shock this time. He was not good at feelings, and he was not good at being unfamiliar with the plan; but he did know how to take orders. He had already decided to follow the American once. To not look too closely at the feeling, and not think too hard about what that _made_ him. He shoved all of this away, into the back of his mind, and maybe one day he would get around to examining it. A part of him briefly whispered that he trusted Napoleon, like he had never trusted before. The other part of him whispered that he hadn’t trusted anyone since Mikhail died. He swallowed thickly and pushed that thought away too.   
  
He nodded and stood, “Try to rest. I will wake you when Gaby gets here.”

Napoleon nodded, “One more thing?” 

Illya turned, “Yes Cowboy?”   
  
“Where are my belongings?”   
  
Illya crossed the room, and opened a small footlocker at the foot of Napoleon’s bed, producing a rucksack.   
  
“All your clothes are also in the bag. I wouldn’t let Gaby throw them away, but the doctor’s had to cut a lot of it off of you.”   
  
Napoleon nodded and held his hands out, waiting for Illya to pass the bag to him. He felt around for his pants, and found the pocket he’d had tailored into the waistband. It was still full. Good.   
  
He pulled it under the blankets, closed his eyes, arms still wrapped around the sack, and fell asleep.

  


*

  


To Illya it took some significant convincing, but Gaby’s mind was already made up the moment Illya said Napoleon wanted to get out of the hospital. She didn’t like seeing him in there, when previously he had been so untouchable. But she was sadistic enough to want to see how desperate the pair were; how desperate and oblivious. When all of this was over, Gaby was going to sit them both down and clip them over the ears. She could let go of Illya and Napoleon, for the sake of getting to hit them both and call them names. She could let them go, if it meant they got to be happy. She owed them both that much, for getting her over the wall.

So, 17 hours after Napoleon’s not-breakdown-breakdown, he was supplied with a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a coat, obviously all of Gaby’s choosing, and packed into the back of a small car Gaby had rented under a false name, his bag hung over his shoulder. He was grey, sweaty faced, and in significant enough pain that he was doing a poor job of hiding by the way Illya kept throwing him concerned glanced and flappy his hands uselessly and Napoleon tried to get comfortable. He had refused to let Illya touch anything he owned. The Russian just let it happen, too curious and worried to push Napoleon to do anything he wasn’t already prepared to do. 

At least there was no blood this time.  

“Where are we going?” He grit out.

Illya and Gaby exchanged glances before Gaby spoke, “We were hoping you would know.” 

Napoleon’s blood ran cold. He was sure, by now, his own private safehouses would have been compromised. Sanders had told him that his deliberate short sightedness was not blindness, and Napoleon was more often than not inclined to believe him. He should have told the others to find somewhere.

He took a deep breath, at least a car moving through the streets made sure they weren’t a stationary target.

“I need to tell you something,” he all but whispered. The car fell silent, except for the whine of the engine as Gaby drove them through the streets, “I need to tell you something and I need you to trust me.”

Napoleon saw the moment Gaby stopped breathing, and the moment Illya’s fingers began tapping against his thighs. 

“Please, keep driving. Whatever you do, keep driving. Please don’t be angry,” his throat felt like it was closing up.   
  
He had meant to tell them sooner, meant to show them and dispose of it; show them that he was prepared to do anything for his team even if that meant ruining his own freedom. He would rather die in captivity than kill Illya for freedom; a thought that was all too familiar to him now. Even if Sanders had not expressly said it, Napoleon knew where it was going, had always known. And maybe at the beginning of the mission he was prepared to do it. He couldn't now, not when so much had transpired between them without a single word. This was something he could no longer shy away from. He was yet to examine it, but it was there thick and high and hot in his chest. Napoleon Solo was a thief, not an agent. But Sanders wasn't listening; no one was listening.   
  
Illya had said he was a terrible spy. Maybe he wasn't wrong. 

“Cowboy?” Illya’s voice was low and questioning; Napoleon recognised the danger in it and pleaded with whatever God was listening that the Russian could keep it together long enough for Napoleon to explain. 

“I trust you,” Gaby whispered.   
  
Hands shaking, he reached into his bag, rifled around and produced what he was looking for. The case was laying under a bush somewhere near where the cars had gone over that cliff. He wasn’t even sure he’d managed to grab it really. The fact it was in his pocket was proof he had a harder head than originally thought.   
  
A wad of thin film was bunched tight in his hand, overflowing out from between his fingertips. He had gotten rid of the disk this morning, while Gaby and Illya were busy. It was stuffed in the back of a toilet at the hospital. All that was useful about it was this film anyway.

Napoleon refused to meet their shocked stares.

Illya’s eyebrows were in danger of disappearing into his hairline. Gaby almost drove off the road before she regained control of herself and the car, “Is that -” she choked.

“- the disk? Yeah,” Napoleon finished.

His eyes strayed to Illya’s. Napoleon could feel the heat burning his chest, his neck, his ears, his face. He wanted to be embarrassed, but mostly he was scared. He wanted to reach forward and take Illya's hand in his own again, and squeeze it and beg for forgiveness. 

“I can explain.” 

Illya was furious. He was furious and _terrified_  and doing everything he could to reign it in. There was nothing to break in this car, other than the car itself and the people within it. Napoleon could see that, and yet Illya was having a hard time bringing himself to care. Whatever he had felt, whatever reason he had given to himself to follow the stupid fucking _American_ \- whatever it was, had completely vanished. He didn’t care. He _couldn’t_ care. Caring had cost him a partner. Caring had made him weak. Caring made him angry and selfish. He had been made fallible, useless to the KGB. Useless as an agent and an assassin. He had been blinded by the perversion and decadence of the West; taken in by Solo’s perfect facade. He had gone and _fallen in love with a fucking American._ And he had known all along it would end like this, really. It couldn’t have ended any other way.    
  
“Illya,” Napoleon whispered again. Gaby’s head was whipping backwards and forwards between them and the road, “Illya, you said you would trust me.”   
  
For a moment, both Gaby and Napoleon were sure that Illya would burst out of his skin and through the windshield. But then he took a breath and another. He pinched the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers. He didn’t remember saying that, but it would be stupid to deny that he didn’t. He hated himself for it, but of course, he trusted the American.   
  
“Explain,” his voice came out harsh, and Gaby and Napoleon visibly shied away from him.

Napoleon was having trouble breathing, and he couldn’t tell if it was the pain in his ribs or the fear. He gasped, taking as much air into his lungs as he could. His head was swimming. 

“I wasn’t even sure I’d managed to grab it,” he finally said, “I thought it was a dream. But I saw it next to the car and I grabbed it and I put it in the inside pocket of my pants.”   
  
Gaby was still driving, and Napoleon was grateful, “I’ve been unconscious for days. I meant to tell you as soon as the mess was over. I wanted to sit down with you both before anyone worked out it was missing, and assess our options.”   
  
Gaby smiled a little at this, she was having some effect on him; a good influence. He was thinking about decisions now, something she was almost certain he had never had to do before, when all he had to take care of was himself.

“But I couldn’t have spoken if I was unconscious. Have either of you heard anything from your respective agencies about it?”   
  
Illya growled, “Oleg knows the disc is missing. He threatened to send me to the Gulag.”   
  
Napoleon groaned in response, dropping his head into his hands, "Fuck."  
  
Gaby snorted, “I think you boys need to know something.”   
  
Abruptly, the car pulled up. No one had noticed the change in light and scenery.   
  
“Waverley knows. And he knows where it is.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio, sporting injuries and trust issues, front Waverley at U.N.C.L.E headquarters in London for their debriefing. There are decisions to be made, and conversations to be had, but this team still have quite mastered how to talk to each other. It might be too late for talking anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am exceptionally sorry for the tardiness of this chapter. It's late in the semester, and unfortunately, there has been other pressing matters that have needed my attention. Likewise, I've got about 4 other fics in the works for you, but figured I should finish this before I really got stuck into anything else. 
> 
> Thankyou for your support so far. Chapters 2-5 have been recently updated with extra pieces for backstory, character building, and really bad grammar choices. Hopefully this chapter is up to scratch too. 
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by Darkest_Sun, who is an angel and edits my grammar when I cannot be bothered too. 
> 
> As always, I live for comments so hmu.

There was a minute of silence. The only thing Illya could hear was his own raging heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon choked, film still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, “But what?” His already grey face was paling further. Gaby became increasingly aware, with the passing moments, that Napoleon Solo was probably going to faint. His face was twisted in pain and guilt, and Gaby saw fear in his eyes. It threw her so firmly off guard that she was sure she had another concussion. Illya, obviously coming to the same conclusion, was out of the car in seconds, practically wrenching the door off its hinges, and coaxing Napoleon gently out of the back seat. The American tried to wave him off, but Illya kept hovering, even as Napoleon got a hold of himself.

Illya shoved his hands into his pockets and scowled. Gaby wanted to hit him. 

Ten days ago, Napoleon was unflappable and perfectly put together. Now he was barely holding on, hair unbrushed, clothes worn and slightly too big, mania and anxiety tightening the muscles in his face to beyond recognition. And Illya, stoic, constant Illya, was right there next to him, heartbreak evident in his features. His mask was cracking, slipping. Shadows under his eyes dark enough for even the worst CIA agent to hide in.

“Where the hell are we?” his voice was rising in octaves and he was shaking slightly. Illya forgot to be angry for a moment, too shocked to understand what was happening.

“Solo,” Gaby held her hands up, palms open like she was trying to get close to a rabid animal, “You have been out for days, weeks even. Take a deep breath and come inside and I’ll explain.”

Napoleon should have stayed in the hospital, should have just told them there. Napoleon should have left the disc where it was. Napoleon should have just run Alexander over and given the disk to someone else, anyone else. Touching it was like a goddamn curse and now he was going to spend the rest of his miserable, but hopefully short, life paying for it. He’d fucked up. Sanders was going to throw him back in prison. The Russians were going to kill him. Illya _hated_ him. Gaby had led them to some weird underground bunker in fucking London, and he wasn’t even sure how he got there. He didn’t even have his own damned pants.

But he was still alive, and Waverley knew. He knew. Napoleon held no reservations about what he was sure Waverley could and would do to him, even with a pleasant British affectation. That almost made what he said worse somehow. But Napoleon Solo was still alive, and Waverley still knew. Everything else would have to wait.

He forced his voice to remain calm, drew himself up to his full height, ignoring every ache and stabbing pain in his body, and said, “Gaby, will you please kindly escort us to Waverley?”

She pursed her lips and nodded, turning on her heel and leading them to a thick metal door with a keypad. She punched the numbers in, and Napoleon wondered how long this had been happening.

“She works for MI6,” Peril whispered behind him, “She has for a long time. We were tricked,” he sounded angry about it. Napoleon made a mental note to have the Russian catch him up later. Preferably over a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch and then dismissed the thought - alcohol and a certain impeccably attractive Russian KGB agent were a heady mix he did not trust himself with. Illya didn’t need any more reasons to strangle him. 

They walked through a series of hallways that remind Napoleon of a rabbit warren but somehow dingier. They walked in a line, Gaby leading, Solo in the middle, and Illya bringing up the rear. He walked close behind Napoleon, watching his limp and resisting any attempts to help his counterpart; he knew it would be futile. Napoleon was determined to do this himself.

The film was still clutched tightly in his hands, and Napoleon wondered if it was still useful at this point. Maybe the way he had stored it could have damaged it somehow. It wouldn't have been surprising, and maybe he could have gotten rid of it and pretended it never existed if it was damaged enough to no longer be of any use. All he would have to do is burn it. Of course, then what? Waverley was not easy to read, and Napoleon prided himself on his ability to read people. Would Waverley punish him for treason? Would he be sent back to the CIA? Technically the mission was over, which meant he was supposed to have already reported back into Sanders. It was unlike his boss to allow this much room. Short man, long leash. But it was still a leash, he should have heard from Sanders by now.

Napoleon might have stopped a nuclear war, but he would be lying to himself if he really thought that was what the Americans had been wanting. This mission wasn’t about destroying the data, it was about collecting it. The man with the best hand always wins the competition, and Napoleon was intelligent enough to understand that global politics was about rigging one’s hand. If you caught a glimpse of the other player’s cards and dealt your own hand right, it wasn’t too difficult to bluff the rest.

The film tangled in his fingers meant the Americans wouldn't have to bluff anymore. And if he gave it to Peril, he was sure that their positions would only be reversed. He was not sure the Russian would have made the same choice he did. It strengthed his resolve and sunk his heart, all in the one move.

As for Waverley, well, he was sure the British would also be fairly interested in the disc as well.

Napoleon all but crashed into the back of Gaby who had stopped in front of a large metal door with a plaque that spelt U.N.C.L.E. She threw a scathing look over her shoulder and Napoleon raised a curious eyebrow at Illya who shrugged. Gaby punched some numbers into the keypad add the door hissed and unsealed itself. Napoleon felt like they were stepping into a vault, his hands itching to grab as many valuables as he could see. He gripped the tape tighter - he was already in possession of what was arguably the most valuable thing in the world.

Gaby led them along a new hallway, doors on both sides. The carpet was plush and a rich maroon under their feet, the lighting warm. Napoleon tried to keep his eyes on the back of Gaby’s head, his pulse hammering in his ears and his hands and armpits sweating profusely. It hurt to breathe, and with every beat of his hammering heart, his ribs throbbed.

"Waverley wants to see you in the conference room," she said, without turning around. Both Illya and Napoleon wondered, somewhat bitterly, how long Gaby had been holding out.

“Were you planning on explaining where we are?” Napoleon asked, forgoing all manners.

She opened a wooden door and gestured to the room beyond, containing a round table and some chairs, and nothing else. Napoleon crossed the threshold with Illya at his heels. Gaby still stood in the doorway, eyes wary, "I'm going to get him."

She shut the door behind her and left the two men standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“When,” he seethed, “Were either of you planning on telling me what the hell is going on?”

“When were you planning on telling me you have disc?” Illya shot back.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows in contempt, “Oh, I don’t know Peril,” his voice was the kind of fake calm that set Illya’s teeth on edge, “Maybe I would have said something sooner if I wasn’t in a goddamn coma.”

Illya shuffled on his feet before gesturing to the chair closest, "Why don't you sit down?"

Napoleon could tell he was trying to help, could tell he was worried. He could also tell the Russian was angry, and he was angry too. He should have listened, and been grateful. His lungs were burning and his head was spinning with the effort it took to breathe in and out again. But as soon as Gaby had closed those doors, the walls felt like they were closing in. Napoleon had always worked hard to keep his constant composure, so hard that no one ever knew the effort it took him to be the calmest person in the room. Even under the pressure of the ocean, Napoleon was sure he could hold himself together with clear efficiency. It's what made him what he thought was a good spy and a better thief. 

He was even put together when the task force assigned to catch him had actually succeeded in doing its job. He was put together when he was sentenced to 15 years. He was put together when Sanders had plucked him out and given him a gun and told him to do whatever he was instructed to do. He was even put together when he was told to fuck a mark, kill a mark, destroy evidence. Everything about him was put together. Except when faced with Illya Kuryakin and Gabriella Teller. They ruined him. 

Because up until this point, Napoleon Solo had known whose side he was on; his own. But he would be lying if he said taking the disc had been a selfish act. He would be lying if he told himself the Russian had nothing to do with the split-second decision. He would be lying to think that the idea of Gaby’s look of betrayal haunting him at every turn had nothing to do with it too.  In those few seconds, Illya and Gaby had been every part of the decision. Especially Illya. He didn’t want to kill him.

And now, Solo was sure, that decision would cost even more of the minuscule amounts of freedom he still possessed and treasured.

It would have been worth it too, utterly worth it if he was sure Illya trusted him. Maybe at one point, he did but his reaction in the car was all Napoleon needed to feel hollowed out. He had accepted this team - given far too much for them. He hadn’t kelp his cards close enough, and now it was all falling to shit. He shouldn’t have been shocked by the realisation, yet somehow, he still was.

He'd broken every rule in his own fucking book.

All because he couldn't kill some stupid, hulking, angry, beautiful, broody _Russian_.

Napoleon hated him.

"Cowboy, what's wrong?" the words sounded unfamiliar coming out of Illya, who was reaching out as if to steady him. Napoleon batted his hand away and sank into the chair. Illya sunk his hands back into his pockets again, frowning and turning his face away. 

He wanted to run, really, he did. But they were in some underground facility and Solo was bruised and battered, barely able to breathe, and without anything he owned, save a sack with some clothes and weapons. Anything else he owned would have still been in Rome.

Stupid fucking Rome.

He was never going to visit that city again.

Illya cocked a perfect eyebrow at him but didn’t respond. Instead, he took up residence against the far wall, leaning precariously against one of his broad shoulders and inspecting his fingernails. It was a move Napoleon was familiar with because it was his sodding move. And Peril was throwing it right back in his face like he fucking knew.

Napoleon snapped.

“What’s wrong Peril?” He asked, voice low and eyes glinting, “What’s wrong?”

Illya looked up, his lips forming at oh as he visibly recoiled from the malice and acidity in Napoleon’s tone like it would burn him if he let the words strike.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I put everything I fucking have on the line, all for a Russian with an Oedipus Complex and a stick up his ass, and a German who might actually be English and almost got me fucking killed, why would there be anything wrong?” He knew he was being unfair, Rudi wasn’t Gaby’s fault. Not really. But it was pouring out, “ It’s not like we were a team or anything. It’s not like I saved your life,” His voice stayed at exactly the same low pitch, and somehow this just made it worse. He lounged in his chair and inspected his fingernails, ignoring the way his breath was short with a wave of anger burning through his very bones.

Illya opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, which would have been decidedly comical under any other circumstances.

“Cowboy-”

Napoleon stood and advance on Illya, who stiffened immediately, “Don’t you Cowboy me. Don’t you dare Kuryakin.”

He was embarrassed to see his hands were shaking and shoved them both into his pockets. At some point, he was going to have to let go of the tape, but right now it was the only thing reminding him that he couldn’t just bolt out the door and never look back.

He was embarrassed, even more, to realise that he was standing far too close to his Russian counterpart. He could see every fleck of blue in Illya’s eyes, every small glint of his gold eyelashes. He could see the small freckles at the bridge of his nose and how the scar next to his eye that he had originally assumed was white, was actually a pale lilac colour. He could see Illya's pulse jackrabbiting in his throat, and on his temple. He could feel Illya’s breath ghosting across his lips and nose and he wanted to bite the man’s bottom lip. Hard.

His quickening pulse did nothing to ease the roaring in his ears.

“I thought you fucking trusted me,” he whispered, the words ripping themselves from between his teeth before he could stop them. He turned away immediately, and withdrew all the way back to his chair, cursing himself with every neuron he could spare.

Illya stood frozen against the wall, hands in mallet sized fists at his sides, but otherwise steady. Napoleon remembered what those hands could do; how they could rip the back off cars and lift and throw motorcycles. How those hands had almost strangled the life out of him back in Germany. He remembered how they had caressed Gaby, and carried her. How they had held his hands while he fought for breath and consciousness.    
  
He tore his eyes away. It would not suit to show the pain. 

And in this precise moment, with tension thick enough it could have been cut with a butterknife, Waverley, with Gaby hot on his heels, buzzed into the room.

Napoleon seethed.

“Well gentlemen, it’s good to see you both,” he said, walking around to the far side of the table and taking a seat. He dropped some folders in front of him and looked at Napoleon over the top of his glasses, “Especially you Solo. I really am sorry about this whole mess.”

Napoleon waved him off, “I will consider forgiving you,” he said, giving his most affectatious and charming smile, “If you tell me what is going on.”

The man leaned back in his chair, and Gaby took up one of the spots between Waverley and Napoleon, while Illya briefly considered taking up the other. He decided against it and continued using the wall as a stand.

“I believe first, you have something of importance for us?”

Napoleon shrugged and held the tape up. It was still wrapped around his fingers, and crumpled from where he had been clenching and unclenching his fist.

Waverley gave him a calculating look and Napoleon had the feeling that he was being tried and tested and completely seen through.

“The boat is sunk,” Waverley said after a moment, “Victoria and Alexander Vinciguerra are dead. You are free to leave anytime you like. Sanders would be happy to take you back,” somehow Napoleon doubted this.

“But the United States governing agency has already accepted my offer of keeping you on board with us here at U.N.C.L.E.”

“U.N.C.L.E?” he tried to stop confusion colouring his voice. 

“United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

Napoleon snorted, “You want me to join a task force?” It was like some sick joke of fate.

Waverley didn’t grace him with an answer other than to raise his eyebrows.

Napoleon tried to school his features, really he did. But his shock ran through him like an electric jolt and he was briefly reminded of the sick, burning feeling he had experienced on Uncle Rudi’s torture chair.

“They won’t let me go,” he said, finally finding it in himself to answer.

Waverley nodded, “I did consider this. Think of it more like a loan.”

Somehow, he had stopped a nuclear war, stolen valuable information, probably pissed Sanders off to no end, almost died, definitely had his nose broken, ruined any semblance of a positive relationship with the Russian, and now Waverley was offering him a job. Which only really meant one thing.

“Sanders doesn’t know, does he?” Napoleon asked, holding the fist up that still had the tape wrapped in it.

Waverley’s smile turned slightly wistful, “Well, I wouldn’t say that. He merely thinks it was destroyed with the other.”

It would have been a cliche of him to admit that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, but really, it had. Too much of this had felt like it was crushing on him, which was why Napoleon Solo, thief extraordinaire and notorious womaniser with a penchant for blonde Russian men, avoided responsibility like the plague.

“Right.”

He stood and crossed the room to pick up the waste paper bin that was next to Illya. The Russian stepped to the side and Napoleon ripped the tape off his hand and watched it float to the bottom.

“Does anyone have a match?” he asked, looking directly at Illya who he knew smoked when he was agitated and definitely pretended he didn’t. Napoleon supposed Communist Russia would not have supported such an addiction.

He reached into his pocket and passed them over. Napoleon lit the film on fire and handed the matches back.

“I suppose I don’t have to say that none of that leaves this room then?” Waverley’s smile was both fond and exasperated.

“I would rather Russia did not find out about treason.”

It was the first words Illya had spoken since Waverley walked in, but they didn’t seem to phase him.

“No, I don’t suppose you would.”

Napoleon took his seat, and Illya moved into the one next to him.

“Agent Kuryakin, this reminds me,” Waverley looked down at his folders, and opened the first one, “I don’t suppose you have given any thought to my offer?”

Both Gaby and Napoleon’s eyes snapped to Illya, who was not used to having so many sets of eyes on him at once.

A flush began creeping up his neck, “Not really sir,” he stuttered, “I have not had chance.”

Waverley’s all-knowing smile gave Gaby hope. She wasn’t the only one who saw it. And these boneheads were going to know by the end of the day, even if it killed her.

“Would you consider it now?”

“Da,” Illya said, “But there is no point. I am owned by Russia. Oleg will not let me go so easily.”

Waverley frowned, “Agent Kuryakin, it’s already been arranged.”

Illya nodded and looked down at his hands. Napoleon’s eyes followed the movement, as his rapidly steadying heart rate began to pick up speed again, “Yes, but at what cost? What of my mother? If I leave, what will stop them from taking her to gulag too?”

Napoleon was struck by the notion that, for a man who was only just considering what could only be assumed as an U.N.C.L.E offer now, he had put a lot of thought and reason into it. And frankly, it was a pretty good reason.

“I know too much. The longer I am in the West, the more tainted I become. Decadency is a disease,” he tried to sound serious like he was quoting a mantra, but a small smile curled the corner of his lips. A joke that no one else would get.

“If I am away much longer, that will be the end of my career,” he stood from the table, “Thank you for opportunity, but I must go home now.”

Surprisingly, it was Gaby who interrupted, her skin pale, “Hang on one moment Illya, you can’t just leave?” she made it sound like a question. He shrugged.

“I do not have much choice,” he didn’t meet her eyes, “You will be brilliant agent. I can see why Solo went in - what is the term? All guns blazing.”

He looked at Napoleon then, daring him to question his decision, “My allegiances lie with the country that I came from. I know my place."

Napoleon wanted to resist the urge; with everything, he wanted to call him out on the absolute bullshit of knowing his place. He couldn't know his place, because Napoleon wasn't even sure of his own anymore. He wanted to tell the Russian to defect, to leave the motherland, and he wanted to promise to have his back when he did. But he was not sure the same could be reversed. Had Illya been in possession of the disc, would he have risked it all to save Napoleon's life?

But still, every part of him ached with the knowledge Illya could and would just make the choice to go. He wanted to demand an explanation; better yet, demand the man to stay because, by God, he owed Napoleon.

“Peril…” Illya shot him a silencing look, but it didn’t matter because Napoleon just didn’t know what to say. Don’t go? How terribly soppy of him. Gaby turned her imploring eyes on Napoleon, insisting he do something. He shrugged.

“He knows the Russians better than we ever could ” he stood and held his hand out, clapping Illya on the shoulder, “Hated working with you Peril.”

A ghost of a smile touched Illya’s lips, and he took Napoleon’s hand in his and shook it quickly, ignoring how warm and sweaty his own palm was, “You’re a terrible spy Cowboy.”

In the corner, the fire burned.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choices always have consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd be the lovely Darkest_Sun 
> 
> Well, you asked and I delivered. It is an exceptionally long chapter that I wrote to deal each and every one of you a hectic amount of emotional damage. These guys fuck me up every time. A few quick notes: 
> 
> It's long because up until maybe two weeks ago I genuinely had no idea where this story was going. It's the first fanfic I've written in close to 8 years and I am very rusty. 
> 
> All my Russian and German comes from Google Translate and various websites. If something is wrong, please let me know so I can fix it. 
> 
> My knowledge homosexuality as a crime (IN THIS CONTEXT, YO, BEING GAY ISN'T A CRIME) is pretty limited. I'm not really sure what it would have been called, but I also don't think it matters. To someone as hard-assed and awful as Oleg, it's good enough, even with no proof. He was gone too long, and would have been tainted by Western decadence. Look, none of this makes sense. But Communist countries are hard on their citizens, especially on the previously upstanding ones.

After a few brief calls, Waverley had organised Illya a flight out of Heathrow for the following morning. No one in the room dared look at each other, for doing so would test their already very shaky resolve.

"Are you sure this is what you want Agent Kuryakin?"

He nodded, "I could not give up anything for my country. I would not. She is always home. She is where I belong."

Illya shook Waverley's hand one last time, murmured his thanks, and left, stopping only briefly next to Napoleon to pat him heavily on the shoulder. They refused to look at each other.

Gaby’s knees were shaking.

As soon as the door was closed, she turned to the American and threw her arms in the air. Anger was easier than sadness. It was easier than pain.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Napoleon just frowned at her and tried to steady his own erratic breathing.

She picked up her things and followed Illya’s footsteps.

Waverley cleared his throat, "Care for a drink, Agent Solo?"

He nodded and accepted the glass his superior had proffered, still reeling from Illya’s statement. _My allegiances lie with the country I come from. I know my place._

Men like Napoleon Solo were always destined to drift. It is what made him a good thief, and at times a good agent. He knew how to avoid setting down roots. In fact, he was almost sure that he had completely lost the ability. There was nothing about his job with the CIA, and any of his pursuits before that, that would have even given him the opportunity. He was either on the run from the good guys, or on the run from the bad ones. The concept of roots hadn’t really sat in his mind until Illya’s hand had grounded him in his hospital room what felt like years ago.

It threatened to overwhelm him, how willing he was to give anything to the Russian.

“I don’t think Agent Kuryakin knows the danger he’s walking into.”  
  
Napoleon was snapped from his reverie, “Excuse me?”

“He was right. The Russians aren’t going to let him go so easily,” Waverley took his glasses off and rubbed his temples, “I secured him a position at U.N.C.L.E on the proviso that should he return to Russia, he would be black bagged for treason, sedition, and homosexuality. I was trying to keep him safe.”

Napoleon spluttered into his drink. There were too many things in that sentence to think about,

“Homosexuality?” his voice sounded strangled and pained. He knew, of course Waverley knew.

Napoleon could smell another gay man from a mile away. He could also smell every ounce of self-hatred rolling off Illya in waves. And Gaby had only guessed. But Waverley had the power to do something about it. And most people wanted to end it.  
  
Waverley shot him a sharp look, “That is not something we consider a crime here at U.N.C.L.E Solo, and furthermore, _it is the least of our problems._ ”

Waverley wasn't most people.  
  
Napoleon nodded, “Sir, I must say, you didn’t mention any of these things to Peril when he was here.”  
  
Waverley hung his head, “He was to make the choice himself,” his voice sounded strained.

“That was the deal I made with Oleg. His misguided attempts at nobility and a complete lack of self-preservation are the only things stopping him from staying.”

"Surely you could have just given him orders? He only seems to respond to those."

Everything about Illya was orders this and orders that. Napoleon supposed that's what made him the better agent.

"Would he have believed me Solo?" Waverley sounded like he was losing his patience.

Napoleon knocked back the rest of his drink, “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
The look he received from Waverley let him know that he had been caught trying to be deliberately stupid, “So you will talk to him.”  
  
“My attempts to talk to Agent Kuryakin will be sorely misplaced,” Napoleon replied, “He had made his opinion of me perfectly clear.”

Waverley’s answering sigh was exasperated, but he knew exactly what to say, “I don’t think Agent Kuryakin would have killed you Solo. I think he would have done exactly the same thing.”  
  
Napoleon blinked, “Oh. Well. That changes things.”  
  
Waverley continued, “If you are to work at U.N.C.L.E you are going to have to learn how to work with other agents. Miss Teller is your team now. Should you convince Kuryakin to stay, he too will be a part of this team. Furthermore, you need to learn to trust us Solo,” he fixed Solo with a stare that demanded it.  
  
Napoleon shrugged, “I don’t put down roots.”  
  
“Well, it’s about time you started. Maybe one day they will save you.”

Napoleon wasn't sure if Waverley meant roots or Gaby and Illya. Either way, he highly doubted it.    
  
Waverley handed him a key, “Go speak to him. You have two weeks mandatory leave effective immediately.”  
  
Solo nodded and took the key, “Yes sir.”  


*

 

Illya’s trip back to the hotel was uneventful, and for that he was grateful. He was too tired to check if he was being followed, to look at all the exits. He was too tired to go over the mission, to fight another person. He was certainly too tired to be thinking about Agent Solo, but that is exactly what he found himself doing; staring out the window of his taxi and wondering what the hell had happened. He should have been looking forward to taking a shower and resting for a few hours, and then going _home._ Going home to his shitty apartment, and his mother, and his job. Going home to familiarity and cold and snow.  
  
But he wasn’t.

He hadn’t been planning on saying no to Waverley. But Solo’s outburst had proven he was not trusted. The man would not see what Illya could not say. He could not see the trust, or what it cost; his loyalty. His freedom. Maybe, one day, his life.

Napoleon had saved Illya’s life because he was not a good agent. Illya’s had saved Napoleon’s. He was given orders to end it all, and oh how it ached to disobey orders. Instead of ending it, he had gone and fucking saved it again. Because he had thought it worth saving. And Napoleon, stupid, blind Napoleon, had not _seen_ what Illya couldn’t say. Shouldn’t say. It would get him killed. But he wanted to.  
  
“I trust you,” he whispered to himself, hours too late.

It didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter that he had and lost a team. It wasn’t the first time. After Mikhail, he would always belong to Russia. Oleg would not let him go. Russia would not let him go, lest they take his mother or his life. Or both. Maybe they would take Napoleon’s and Gaby’s too, for good measure.

The hotel room was clean and comfortable. Nothing fancy. Illya was grateful. He pulled the vodka from the sideboard and poured a healthy measure into the accompanying glass. He should not drink, really. But that had never stopped Solo, and who was Illya to let an American best him in something as simple as drinking oneself into a stupor. He tipped the glass down his throat.

A note on the table informed him that the phone was a secure line, and he should call home, _Let your mother know you will be arriving Agent Kuryakin._

Waverley really had thought of everything. He was kinder than any superior Illya had had, kinder than Illya was used to. And suddenly he was relieved to be going home; relieved to be going back to the harshness of Russian winters and training until his knuckles bled, of only being told how to do better, be better. Forward, always forward. Anything soft in him had been beaten, shot, or sliced out long ago.  
  
He was afraid his sharp edges would only slice through U.N.C.L.E before it ever got off the ground. Afraid he would slice through his team in a fit of rage. Illya was tethered and buoyed by the KGB; cutting him free of that would only be his demise. He needed orders.

Napoleon Solo had been cutting through that tether.

Napoleon Solo could have ended Illya.

 _And yet he did not_ , a small voice reminded him. He rubbed his father’s watch.

He poured another drink and glared at the phone for a solid ten minutes before he picked up the receiver. He dialled his mother as a knock sounded at the door. He put the phone down quickly and opened it to have Gaby bust in, and slam it closed behind her. She looked at him, eyes like storms, and the glass in his hand.

Then, faster than he could have done himself, she snatched it from him and downed it in one.  
  
“Why?”

“I’m thirsty,” she replied.

He strode over to the phone and picked the receiver back up.

“Kto tam?” came a wary and crackling feminine voice from the other line. _Who’s there?_  
  
He sighed in relief, “Privet mama eto ya.” _Hello mama, it’s me._

“Ilyusha, syn moy! Ty v poryadke? Vy udarilis'?” He hated the pet name. He hated making her worry more.

“Net, mama, net. Ya v bezopasnosti. Ya idu domoy,” _No mama, no. I am safe. I am coming home._ It felt good to tell her the truth, for once. To not have to lie.

“Na skol'ko dolgo?” Suspicion filled her voice. He could see her, leaning back against the sink, frowning slightly. She was a smart woman. They were all smart, those who survived as she had. _How long for?_ She had asked. Illya could only tell her so much.  
  
“Poka menya ne otpravyat snova,” _Until I am sent away again._

She sighed, “Ya tak i dumal. Beregi sebya Ilyusha,” _That is what I thought. Be safe Illyusha._

“Bud' v bezopasnosti, mama,” he whispered back, but the line was already dead. _Be safe._ That was all they ever said to each other. A mantra. Be safe, come home. She had said it when he had come home from Austria missing Mikhail, and every morning he went to school after his father was taken. It had started so innocently. And now it was all they had. _Be safe._ He was trying. Illya’s chest ached.

Gaby cleared her throat. He had forgotten she was there. And now he was almost certain he didn’t want her to be.

He walked to the sideboard, just to give himself something to do with his shaking fingers, and poured himself another drink before knocking it back. The look on her face told him he was going to need it.

“Why are you here?”

She closed the distance between them and poked him in the chest, “Weil du ein idiot bist,” she hissed. _You are an idiot._ Illya couldn’t help but agree.

“What for?”

She threw her hands in the air, “They will kill you Illya!”

He took a step back, hands shaking at his sides, “How do you know that?”

Gaby withdrew her hands and gave him a peculiar look, “I don’t. But how long have you been gone? Think about who you have been working with? If I were to cross the wall now, after everything I have seen here, after who I have worked with, do you really think I would be allowed to live?”  
  
“The Stasi would not care.”  
  
“But I would.”  
  
“What is your point?”  
  
“Illya,” she looked sad, “You heart does not lie there.”  
  
He looked at her, really looked at her. Her lips, her eyes, her hair, she shoulders, her arms and her legs. He knew she was pretty. She was soft and curved and warm brown. He wanted to find her attractive. He had tried so hard. She wanted him, he knew that. He had known that from the beginning of Rome. It would have been easier if he could have just kissed her. Now all he saw was pity.

“Do you know who I was speaking with?”  
  
Gaby shrugged, “I assume your handler.”  
  
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “My mother.”

“Oh.”

Silence hung between them, thick and heavy. It filled Illya was rage. This was something his partners would never know. Orphaned, alone. They had no one else in the world to care about but themselves. No country to call home; Napoleon had maybe never belonged in American, and Gaby was certain to never return to East Germany. Even if _he_ didn’t want to go home, she needed him. His mother needed him. She needed him to be safe. She needed him to keep her safe; the only way he was going to accomplish that was by doing his job, by protecting the motherland.  
  
“Get out.”

It was too late to look at Gaby and see hope. There was none.

She blinked, “Excuse me?”

“I said get out,” he growled, “I am going back to Russia. Get. Out.”  
  
He took a step towards her, and he saw real fear flash through her face. He recoiled; he had done that. His too-sharp edges had done that.  
  
“Gaby-”

She held up a hand and grabbed her things. When she turned back to him, he could see her eyes were shining, “You are an arse. I’m glad you’re going.”  
  
A single tear spilt over, and she hastily wiped it away, angry at herself, “Have a nice flight.”

The door did not touch her on the way out.

*

 

Illya, still reeling from Gaby’s comments, was just getting out of the shower when another knock sounded at the door. He considered just leaving it and heading straight to bed. It couldn’t matter who was there, because tomorrow it wouldn’t matter. He would be heading Russia. He would not be coming back.

“It’s me, open the door,” Napoleon’s voice sounded uncharacteristically tired and fragile, something that Illya was becoming more familiar with.

He stared at the closed door, wearing nothing but a towel, water dripping down his tall, lean frame, soaking into the carpet.

“Shit.”  
  
He heard Napoleon sigh, “I know you’re in there, open the door.”

Pants. Illya needed pants. He turned back to the bedroom to rummage through his suitcase, ripping his towel off as he went.

“Waverley gave me a fucking key for Christ’s sake. Open the door or I will use it.”  
  
It was very unlike the American to give Illya a choice as to when his personal space was invaded. Illya considered that while he fumbled around, still dripping and butt naked, looking for pants.

The door clicked open.

They made eye contact.

"Oh," There was a glint in Napoleon's eyes before he looked away and Illya flushed. He could see Solo's answering flush sweep up his neck, "Sorry."

Illya slammed the bedroom door shut and breathed heavily through his nose, willing all the blood in his body to stop moving south, to just freeze in his veins. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He shook his head and cleared his throat, finally located some pants and yanked them on. His hair was still dripping, and his back was still beaded with little drops, cooling his fevered skin.

He took a deep breath again and towelled his hair dry. When he left the room, finally wearing pants, but only pants, Napoleon was seated on the couch, the Stoli bottle on the coffee table with two glasses.

"Drink?"

Illya nodded, feeling his blush tinge his cheeks again.

Napoleon poured it out. Illya went to the bathroom to hang his towel. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and looked away. He looked awful.

"What do you want?" he asked brusquely, picking up the glass on the table. Solo sat with his ankles crossed on the couch. Illya continued to stand, refusing to meet his now ex-partner’s eyes. The vodka burned when he threw it back. He reached forward and poured another.  
  
Solo was staring at him intently, a small line between his eyebrows, lips turned down at the corners, “Do you even want to go back?”

“Russia is home.”

“That’s not what I asked Peril,” he sighed and knocked his own drink back, wincing, “Never liked vodka.”

Illya watched him do it, focusing on the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. The purple bruise under his jaw having blossomed spectacularly. He wanted to reach out and touch it.

“How are your ribs?”

Solo grimaced, “Peachy.”  
  
He poured himself another shot and downed it in the same movement.

Illya took the bottle and drank straight from it, meeting Solo’s eyes. His lips opened slightly, a soft sigh escaping as he watched Illya take a wanton swig. It was probably a stupid idea, really. But Solo’s pupils were blown wide, and his plump lips had curved and Illya was taken over by the maddening urge to kiss him.

He put the bottle down, “What does it matter if I want to go back?”

Napoleon’s expression changed again, back into the frown with the pulled down lips. Illya was so focused on his lips. It was hard to hear what he was saying.  
  
“- good agent, and Waverley wants to have you as part of U.N.C.L.E. Gaby doesn’t want you to go; she yelled at me after you left by the way, so thank you for that - “

“You are welcome,” he interrupted sourly, forgoing mentioning that not all that long ago, Gaby had been yelling at him, and he had been growling right back.  

“- and Waverley gave me the key to get in here so it must be pretty obvious how integral you are to this new _task force_ _,_ ” he made the word sound dirty, “if he’s willing to risk my life to get you.”  
  
“Just because someone gave you key, does not mean you should force way in,” Illya tried to sound put out as the blush climbed his cheeks. Solo’s answering smile was amused, and maybe slightly predatory.  
  
“I’m rather glad I did,” he leaned back and crossed his ankles, lifting the glass to his lips. His wink went straight to the Russian's groin. His mouth quirked up in a trademark Solo Smirk and he raked his gaze from the top of Illya’s head, down his unclothed chest, all the way to his feet. It made Illya wish he wasn’t wearing pants, and tremendously grateful he was, all in the same breath.

Illya’s responding shiver was involuntary.

He changed the subject, “Gaby will not want to be a part of team I am on.”  
  
Solo raised an eyebrow, and then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. So fucking young.

“What did she say?” He sighed again, “Don’t answer that. What did you do?” He opened his eyes, “Don’t answer that either. I don’t want to know. You’re both idiots.”

Illya spluttered his indignation, “Excuse me? I am not idiot.”  
  
Napoleon’s grin was disarming, “Can I let you in on a secret Peril? She fancies you.”

Illya’s gulp was audible. He knew that, of course he knew that. Rome sprang into his mind all over again. All of Rome, everything about it. He hated it.  
  
He flushed, and looked away from Napoleon’s blue and gold eyes, afraid of falling in, “I know.”  
  
Napoleon cocked an eyebrow, “You do?”  
  
He nodded, “She made move in Rome. Drunk. I let her down,” he tried to play it off, make it sound like he was being a gentleman; not that the idea of having Gaby in his lap made him want to recoil. She wasn’t masculine, wasn’t hard enough. She was too breakable. All women were. Some men too.

Napoleon considered this for a moment, “She’s very pretty.”

 Illya nodded, “I know this too Cowboy,” his heart was hammering in his chest. She was beautiful. And somehow, somewhere, there was a God who had cursed Illya to think Solo was more beautiful. Dark hair, pale skin, lean, and long and breathtaking.  
  
“Any particular reason?”  
  
_Oh, fuck._

“Reason for what?”

“That you didn’t take her up on her offer?

“Would not be right.”  
  
Napoleon’s sudden face-splitting grin actually made Illya question his mental health, right up until the next sentence slipped out to hang in the air between them.

“So, it’s got nothing to do with the fact you aren’t attracted to women then?”

For the second time that evening, silence hung between Illya and his unwelcome guest.

“What?” he wasn’t entirely sure he’d said it in English but Solo answered anyway.

“You like men.”

“No.”

“Peril, you do. I know you do.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know you prefer men.”

“Will you shut up?”

“Not until you agree with me.”

“No.”

“Illya, I know you do. Pretty sure Gaby knows too. And Waverley definitely knows.”

Illya’s knees were shaking. His hands were shaking. Everything was spinning and vibrating. _Oh, fuck._ And then, quick as a flash, Napoleon was standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into his clavicle.

“Breathe Peril,” he whispered, holding Illya’s gaze with nothing but concern, “It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you.”

Illya jerked back and took a deep breath.

“No one is going to hurt you Illya,” he repeated again. The lack of nickname made Illya stand a little straighter. He liked how Napoleon said it, in two syllables, emphasis on the _ya_ sound. He hated that he liked it, “I won’t let them.”

A warm ache that had been caused by his mother spread hot and deep through Illya, right down to his bones. A desperate longing for a home that he never really thought he would be able to find. It had almost been Mikhail. His mother and Russia were the closest he would get now, and he had resigned himself to that fate years ago. Solo’s admonition changed things. A spark of hope flared where Gaby had failed.  
  
He wanted to cut it off. His mother's words rang in his ears.  _Be safe._

“It is illegal,” he said, stepping away from the warmth and heady scent that was Napoleon, “It will get me killed.”

Napoleon took a step towards him again, “It’s illegal where I come from too.”

Illya stepped away, “More reason to leave it alone,” When had this become about them? Why was that distinction important now?

Napoleon stepped forward, so obvious in his pursuit. Step for step. It was a dance, a dance they had refused to talk about and always played around.

“That never stopped me before.”

Illya stepped back and he felt his back his the wall, “We will be killed.”  
  
Solo stepped forward, effectively blocking Illya into a corner. The blonde’s eyes were darting all over the room, trying to look everywhere except the American and his perfect lips. Trying to hear past the thumping in his ears, the hammering in his chest. He felt sick and hot, shame crawling up into his throat as want curled low in his belly.

“I trust you,” Napoleon breathed. Illya felt his breath across his own mouth.

“Ya doveryayu tebe,” _I trust you_ , he hope Solo’s limited Russian got him this far, “Ya im ne doveryayu,” _It is them I do not trust._ It hadn't really struck him as real until he said it. 

“I don’t want you to go.”  


Illya surged toward Napoleon, hands tangling in the lapels of his jacket, yanking him bodily forwards, and crushing their mouths together. It was not a good kiss; it lacked technique and it had too much teeth. It was hard and hectic, and Illya bit his way into Napoleon’s gasping lips, sliding his tongue in hungrily alongside the American’s. All Napoleon could do was hold onto Illya’s biceps and hope he didn’t fall.

It could have lasted hours, or it could have lasted mere seconds. It didn’t matter. Illya was kissing him. And he was kissing back. Everything inside him threatened to overflow and snap back all at once. He shoved Napoleon backwards. Panic rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Napoleon stumbled and straightened, smoothing his shirt over with shaking hands, his lips red and swollen and spit slicked, hair properly dishevelled by Illya’s frantic fingers. His eyes were hard and guarded.

“My apologies,” Illya couldn’t work out why he was the one apologising. He couldn’t make words form on his tongue. It felt swollen in his mouth. Napoleon was breathing heavily, and wincing with every inhale.

Illya’s sharp edges had caught someone else.

“My apologies,” Napoleon breathed, not meeting Illya’s lost gaze, “I should not have cornered you. I read that wrong.”  
  
Napoleon Solo hadn’t read desire wrong in a very long time. He was lying. Illya knew it. He was lying _for Illya’s sake._ He knew that too.

“Cowboy I -” He held a hand up, much in the same way Gaby had done.

“You don’t have to go. The offer still stands from Waverley. We will either see you Monday, or we won’t.”

He turned and left.

Illya stood still for only two minutes before he promptly destroyed everything in the room.

Napoleon could hear it from the end of the hallway. He sighed, wondering how he was going to explain his failure to Waverley.  

 

*

 

The morning was grey and cold when Illya lined up to board the plane to Helsinki. Personally, he hated flying. But it was faster than driving and easier than using a boat to cross the channel. Maybe he could drive from Helsinki to Moscow.

He scanned his surroundings again. Heathrow was a busy airport. He tried to take it all in, to see everything. He wouldn’t have put it past Waverley to send another person to demand he stay.

_Be safe Illyusha._

“I am mama,” he whispered to himself, “For you. For home.”

No matter the cost, he would pay it, for his mother. He would pay his freedom for hers. She had already paid hers a thousand times for his. A life for a life. Napoleon Solo did not fit into their lives. He would only destroy them.

Illya didn’t believe a single word he told himself. Instead, he touched his lips again.

The flight to Helsinki was uneventful, if not a little uncomfortable. Illya was always too tall and too volatile to sit quietly on an aircraft; limbs always folded and tucked in too close, knees pushing against the seat in front. And he really wanted a cigarette, but somehow it didn’t seem right to smoke so far up.

He was leaning against a wall close to his terminal, back against cold concrete, sucking the nicotine down in short, perfunctory inhales. Nothing like Napoleon’s lazy, long draws. Smoking was for a purpose. It helped keep him calm. He was stubbing it out on the bottom of his show and looking for a bin when it happened.

“Excuse me sir,” Illya turned to the sound of the voice, masculine and Russian, immediately putting him on high alert. He was dressed much like Illya was, in navy blue tactical pants, worn black steel cap boots and a thick black sweater. He cast a quick look around, and noticed, quite suddenly, that every exit he could take was cut off by men of roughly the same build, wearing exactly the same thing.

And then he saw Oleg.

The man had not changed in the few months since Illya had last seen him, which was no surprise. Usually, he looked at Illya with cool indifference, sometimes his eyes betraying his approval. What faced Illya now was the exact opposite. He thrust a photo into Illya’s hands.  
  
“Dumal ya ne uznayu?” _Did you think I would not find out?_ He snarled. Illya glanced down, already knowing what he would see. His blood was running hot and thick in his veins, choking him, suffocating him. He was shaking. He could barely hold the photo still enough to look at it. But it didn’t matter, he knew what it was. Russia knew.

It wasn’t from the night before, but that didn’t matter. It was obvious in the photo. The way he was looking at Napoleon while he talked with Gaby was proof enough really, for Russia at least. But there was more; there was always more with Oleg.

“Izmena i sodomiya,” he spat in Illya’s face. _Treason and sodomy._  

Gaby had been right. He had been right. Russia would kill him.

He was waiting for the surprise to hit him. It never did.

He should have stayed in England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there now guys. Hold tight. Stick with me just a little longer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose you're going to hate me a little when you notice that these 8 chapters have been pushed out to ten. BUT. I finished my final exam two days ago so I have very much free time to write some more goodness for you guys. 
> 
> This was beta's by the ever lovely [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun).

Monday morning dawned grey. Napoleon Solo lay in that warm haze between sleeping and waking until he remembered the night before. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something that wasn’t Illya, or the way he had held Napoleon so close he might suffocate, quite happily, against the Russian’s mouth. It didn’t matter now. He rolled over and looked at the clock on the wall. Illya had left already. 

He closed his eyes and went back to sleep. 

 

*

 

Gaby came by at dinner time. She held out a bottle of wine, “I didn’t know what was good.” 

He stepped aside and held the door so she could walk in. She tossed her bag and coat onto the sofa, and Napoleon went back to the kitchen to check the pasta. He was still walking gingerly, and occasionally he would have to go and sit down again for a few minutes; the room would spin and breathing would be difficult and painful. 

“Where do you think he is now?” Gaby asked, pushing her food around the plate. Napoleon put his fork down and took a sip of the wine Gaby had bought. It wasn’t bad. 

“Probably with his handler or his mother,” he responded, picking the fork back up to have another mouth full. He really didn’t want to think about where Illya was right now. He really didn’t want to think about Illya at all. 

Gaby took a bite and chewed slowly. 

“What time is it there?” 

Napoleon checked his watch, “He’ll be in bed.” 

It was late in Moscow. Late and cold. Always cold. 

Gaby did the dishes while Napoleon sat in an armchair. She had claimed he had done enough for her, and this was the least she could do for his hospitality. He knew it was because she was still worried about his health. He let it happen; he had already been on his feet too much today. He was meant to be resting, but resting was hard when he was so  _ restless.  _

“Do you think he’s safe?” Gaby asked, sitting down in the chair next to his. She sounded so young, and so afraid. 

He shrugged, and suppressed the subsequent wince, “I don’t know.” 

They sat in silence for an hour, both nursing drinks, until Napoleon sat back and sighed, “I went and spoke with him last night.” 

Gaby turned to face him, her eyebrows knit together, “I did too.” 

Napoleon’s answering smile didn’t meet his eyes, “I know,” he sounded hard, even with the tilt of his lips. 

She shrugged, “It didn’t matter.” 

Napoleon’s chuckle was full of mirth, “Oh, but it does,” Gaby raised an eyebrow, “I went with orders from Waverley.” 

Gaby sat back too, “Everyone does stupid things because of orders from Waverley,” she grumbled. 

“I never said it was stupid.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, “I’ve been on the receiving end of orders from Waverley. I know how stupid they are.”  

Napoleon nodded knowingly, finally catching on. It was the closest he was probably going to get to an explanation for his time with Uncle Rudi, and he wasn’t willing to press the matter. It still made him feel physically ill to think about; the burning, the nausea, the cracking sound of his teeth clashing together repetitively as he shook and shook and shook. 

“What did Waverley say?” Gaby asked, lifting her glass to her lips. 

Napoleon sighed and put his glass down. He slumped back in the chair, ribs protesting. He had aged, Gaby decided, rather rapidly in the last few days. His mouth pulled down at the corners, and the lines around his eyes seemed more predominant. He turned to her, fear and regret plainly on his face; masks all put aside. 

Gaby didn’t need to guess. She knew. 

“He’s going to prison.” 

Napoleon nodded. 

“Waverley could only help if Illya chose to stay himself. Oleg was making a point; Ilya doesn’t belong.”

Gaby snorted and all but threw her glass onto the coffee table. 

“Bullshit.” 

 

*

 

Napoleon still had spent his resting period working on his strength and breathing like the physical therapist had said, and as much as it hurt, he was really starting to improve. He could definitely breathe again, and his ribs were starting to feel more bruised than shattered. He knew he wasn’t completely up to scratch though, and it wouldn’t have been a surprise if, when he did finally go back to work, Waverley put him on lighter duties. 

But for now, he still had three blissful days of mandatory leave left, days he would spend determinedly  _ not  _ thinking about Illya. Napoleon knew where he was. He knew what it meant when the Russian had left. He would not see Illya again. Napoleon decided, rather forcibly, to not think about that either.  

That was when Gaby showed up on his doorstep again.

Napoleon opened the door, and she pushed right past him and into the living room. When she turned to face him, he could see the steely resolved Gaby Teller from Rome. 

“Grab your shit,” she said, “We have a mission.” 

Napoleon closed the door hastily. He’d rather not have his neighbours hear. 

“I’m not cleared yet,” he moved to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove, trying to busy his hands and stop the buzzing of his pulse in his ears.

Gaby shrugged, “It’s not exactly on record.” 

He turned around, bracing his hands against the bench, and blinked at her, “What?” 

Gaby Teller, steely resolved Gaby Teller, willing to follow Waverley’s  _ stupid  _ orders, was suggesting multi-national  _ treason. _ Napoleon was irreverent, he had done some pretty ludicrous things in his past; he’d stolen a lot of art, and sold a lot of art. But treason; well that had never crossed his mind.

Except that it had, when he burned the Vinciguerra tape.

Gaby watched him war with himself and huffed, “Solo, get your shit. We’re leaving in an hour.” 

He stared at her incredulously, “To where? Gaby, what?” 

She raised an eyebrow at him, and crossed her arms over her chest, “Are you really that thick?”

“No! Gaby, do you even know what you’re saying?”

But she continued on, unrelenting, “You are supposed to be a spy Solo. You both are, and you’re both so fucking macho and dense!” she took a deep breath, “When you come back to work in three days time, who the fuck do you think you’re going to be working with?”

“You.” 

She tossed her hands into the air, “And you’re okay with that?” Her voice was rising, “After what I did?” It came out angry and rather choked, “Are you going to fucking trust me?” 

He held his hands up, a little in defeat. 

“I don’t really have a choice.” 

She deflated at that, sinking into the sofa she was standing next to, “We never have a choice,” she whispered, “None of us did. None of us do. Not me, or you, or Illya.”

“Gaby,” he started, “Illya had a choice, remember? What are you actually suggesting here?” 

She stood, bounding up to him in her heels and still a good head shorter, “Alright, Mr Fucking Important Suit,” she spat, eyes alight with fury, “I’ll spell it out for you: I am not a thief, and I can’t fucking steal Illya out of Russia without your help,” she poked him hard in the chest, daring him to question her.

“Does Waverley know?” 

Her returning smile didn’t meet her obstinate gaze, “No.”

“Then we can’t do it,” he replied. 

He wasn’t going to let the hope rise in him. He was going to pretend that he hadn’t been dreaming about it, planning how he would get to Illya, where ever he was, and free him. He was going to pretend he hadn’t tried to dig up blueprints of the Kremlin, and tried to learn which Gulag camp a certain Illya Kuryakin has been sent to, if he had been sent at all. It was no surprise when his search had, of course, turned up nothing.  

It was practically a suicide mission, he reasoned, and even if they did get out, it would be the end of their careers. Waverley was a patient man, but insubordination on this scale, especially in a fledgeling organisation like U.N.C.L.E, would be political suicide. 

And Illya had decided to go. He must have known, on some level, what was waiting for him, and he still left. That was just how the game was played. 

Gaby slapped him. 

“Where the hell do you belong Napoleon? Where the fuck are you from?” He had never seen her so angry, chest heaving, desperation clouding her eyes. 

“I don’t,” his voice was hard as he stepped out of her reach, “You know that. You read my file.” 

“Was America ever home for you?”

He considered her question, already knowing the answer, and pursed his lips, “No. Not since I was a boy.” 

She softened, only slightly, gaze still searching and urgent, “Do you think Germany was home for me?” 

He shook his head, “Not by the time I got you out,” because it hadn’t been. He had been expecting so much more of a fight, and she just went with him, over the wall and into the free world. Maybe because Waverley had told her to, but Napoleon knew Gaby enough to know she would have taken the opportunity regardless. It is not a good life to live, behind the Berlin Wall. 

“You stupid, selfish, fucking arsehole -” she slapped him again, “You absolute  _ idiot _ -” she proceeded into a German tirade of which Napoleon was sure he was called a fuckwit, an oblivious wanker, and a lovesick coward. Which, when translated literally, meant trouser shitter. 

“Enough,” he said, still nursing his now burning cheek, “I get it.” 

“Do you?” she hissed, “You’re both so goddamn blind.”

“Illya has gone  _ home, _ ” Napoleon said, throwing his arms into the air, “Is that the point you were trying to make?”

“Russia isn’t home you complete-” she raised a hand to hit him again, but he caught her wrist and pinned it to her side. She yanked it free, ferocity splitting her face, “Home is wherever the fuck we make it Napoleon. I would like some permanency you twit, and I would like it with my whole fucking  _ team. _ ” 

It was a big call to make. Napoleon could see what it cost her to wear her heart so firmly on her sleeve, convinced that this was all she would need. He wondered if she had considered the risks of her statement, the risk of her career and her ability to even have a permanent life now that she worked for U.N.C.L.E. He hadn’t. He didn’t even know where to begin looking. 

“I don’t put down roots.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I don’t,” he said, brushing off her swearing like she wasn’t trying to peel his layers forcibly back. It was starting to sting, how easily they could do it. How a simple phrase, his needling of them, was having a backlash so intense he was sure his skin was going to peel off his bones. 

The kettle had started screaming at them. Napoleon stalked over and took it off the heat. His hands were shaking, and it took substantial effort to not drop it on the floor. He kept his back to Gaby, but he could hear her heavy breathing. His chest ached, and he couldn’t tell if it was his ribs or Gaby or Illya or his own stupidity and stubbornness, or all of the above. 

“This isn’t about you Napoleon,” she sounded choked, “Illya had a home. He’s the only one. And that home is going to destroy him. The only thing he’s trusted in the last 10 years is us. If you cared about him, trusted him at all-”

“How do you know that?”

Gaby stared at him beseechingly, “I broke into Waverley’s office and stole his KGB file. He hadn’t worked with anyone else since his partner was killed, right in front of him. He was 20.”

“Oh Jesus,” Napoleon felt sick. 

“His name was Mikhail. They were best friends,” Gaby’s voice had diminished to a soft whisper, “The photos. Napoleon, they were boyhood friends. Best friends. I think,” she trailed off and then caught his eye and squared her shoulders, “I think Illya loved him.” 

She gave him a pointed look, raising her eyebrows.

Napoleon huffed, “Gaby, I’m not. He’s not. We’re not. I know. It’s just - “

“Illegal?” she hedged, “Stupid? Reckless? And on top of all that, you just let me go on  _ pining  _ when I could have accepted he doesn’t like,” she gestured to herself, “Any of this?”

When had this become about their feelings for each other? Napoleon frowned at her, “He could have been killed for it,” he said, by way of explanation, “I was covering for him.”

“You trusted him. And you wanted him to trust you.”

She was too good at this, “Fine, yes. I wanted him to trust me. I wanted to keep his secrets safe.”

“You could have told me,” she whispered, eyes a little too bright for Napoleon to be comfortable with, “I’m not some monster. I want you both to be happy. I owe you both that.” 

He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, “Gaby, you don’t know what it’s like. Where I come from, if people knew, I would be arrested and spat on. Where he comes from,” he gulped, “He will be sentenced to death.”  

“He’s already going to be killed for it Solo! He’s been charged with fucking sodomy you complete -” she swore at him again; something that translated into arse violin. German swears  really were colourful.

Napoleon blanched, “But we didn’t -”

“Well yes, you’re too fucking depressed to have had sex recently. But Solo, if  _ we  _ know, what makes you think Russia doesn’t?”

“But they do.” 

He still didn’t understand the point of Gaby’s visit. She gave an almighty sigh, and called him an idiot again.    
  
“Napoleon,” she sounded exhausted, “Illya’s got it bad,” he stared at her confusedly, “ _ for you. _ ”

He nodded, having figured that out with the memory of Illya’s lips devouring his. 

“And you, idiot man, have to at least trust  _ someone  _ on this team. You trust Illya. I know you do. And he trusts you.”

He nodded again. 

“Then what, you absolute moron, are you going to do about it?”

Infuriating woman.

Napoleon marched into his room, pulled the suitcase from under his bed, and emptied his whole closet into it; clothes, ammunition, lock picks, and anything else he might need. He emerged from his room, ten minutes later, dressed in his third best suit, guns in his shoulder holster, knife in his pocket, and pulling the case. A heavy coat slung over his arm.

“Let’s go.” 

 

*

 

The only flights Gaby could book from London to Moscow had a stopover in Germany. She told Napoleon this as they waited to board their flight in Gatwick, travelling under assumed identities. Napoleon could see the fear in her eyes, and her unfaltering resolution to follow this through. 

“Frankfurt. Only for a few hours.”

It was the closest she had been to the wall since he pulled her over it. They were hundreds of miles from it, but that didn’t stop her barely concealed panic. 

That was when it stopped feeling like a dream, in the stubborn set of Gaby’s jaw, her too tense shoulders. That was when he knew they were really going to do this, to risk life and limb, to risk _everything_ to bring Illya home. _Home._  

Napoleon was becoming familiar with the word now. Maybe when this was all over, if they lived, he could consider familiarising himself with the concept too.

 

*

 

It was snowing in Moscow when they landed, early in the evening. Napoleon’s blood sat stagnantly in his veins, knowing Illya was somewhere in this city and being able to do very little about it. It made him anxious in a way he had not been since the war, checking over his shoulder and sticking to public places. It was better to be seen than unseen, in this city. Otherwise indicated that he had something to hide. And he would rather they found out what it was after he smuggled it out.

He checked them into a hotel, close to the city centre, under assumed names and in terribly accented Russian. It was still better than anything Gaby was yet to produce. 

“We stick out,” she hissed at him, as he swept their small room for bugs. If there were any, he couldn’t find them. 

“I know.”  

Gaby leaned down and undid her shoes before shuffling back and tucking her feet under the blankets. She shivered and stared at him, thin, stoic veneer cracking. 

“I’m scared Napoleon.” 

He nodded solemnly, “As am I. But we are here now. So we have to follow this through.”

The promise of the American dream was not one that Napoleon believed in; he was a pragmatist, and a lucky one if he could say so himself thankyouverymuch. But it provided him with a good scaffold within which to believe this false hope that would carry Gaby all the way to the end. It had occurred to Napoleon, infinitely too late, that it had been close to a month since Illya left the United Kingdom. Should he have been intercepted, like they were sure he had been, Illya was most likely lost to them now. 

Dead. 

Or as good as. 

When he looked back over at Gaby, she had fallen asleep sitting up, toes pushed under the blankets and knees drawn up to her chest, eye makeup smudged into the premature stress lined around her eyes. 

This job would make her age while she was young. 

He touched her cheek, pushed her hair from her face and neck and guided her carefully under the covers. She made a small contented noise when he tucked the blanket around her. 

They didn’t have a home. But, he supposed, for now, they had each other. And maybe Illya would need that too if they found him. 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic. I haven't written anything in years, but I couldn't resist the number of innuendoes in this film. It's still a WIP. But it's going... somewhere. Enjoy. Please leave comments - I'd love some feedback.


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